The Temporary Wife
by sammie28
Summary: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." Still, since it was rather gauche to advertise for a wife, Grant Ward advertised for a nanny instead. (AU)
1. Chapter 1

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

DISCLAIMER: The story is basically an adaptation of Mary Balogh's "The Temporary Wife", modernized and "SHIELD"-ized. Characters are either "SHIELD" or Balogh characters (some renamed), except for Mark Lockwood, Jerome Triplett, and Pastor Dan, which are mine. Plot and major plot events are Balogh's (except for a few). Opening quote is, of course, from Jane Austen.

RATING: T

SUMMARY: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." Still, since it was rather _gauche_ to advertise for a wife, Grant Ward advertised for a nanny instead. (AU - Mary Balogh's "The Temporary Wife")

A/N:  
- Thank you to all who have read and reviewed my previous stories!

- I'm not really a romance novel person; I prefer murder mysteries and things which blow up. "Read this one," I was told. So I read Mary Balogh's "The Temporary Wife" and rather liked the main character. A few months later I started watching "SHIELD" and went, "THAT'S WARD AND SIMMONS" - with a few small changes, of course. This is a modern "SHIELD" rewrite (remake?) of Mary Balogh's story. Major plotline and themes are hers, of course.

**This is very, very AU**. **You are warned.**

- Just wanted to give a fan cheer for Bear McCreary, composer for "SHIELD". Like many, I learned of him through "Battlestar Galactica", but he's done a lot, like "Walking Dead". I love his work on "SHIELD", especially on "FZZT". McCreary's "Day in the Life" is a great place to start :-) , then visit his website.  
DAY IN THE LIFE: youtubeDOTcomSLASHwatch?v=52xxaVKoI-c  
WEBSITE: bearmcrearyDOTcom

* * *

"Old sins have long shadows."  
- proverb

* * *

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." Grant Ward was very single (he'd dumped his last girlfriend two years ago) and was very much in possession of his own, self-made, gigantic fortune. In addition, although it was most certainly not necessary, this single man who had a good fortune was also possessed of good looks: tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and a generally patrician face. Most certainly a man this good-looking and wealthy needed a wife.

As wittily sarcastic as the original adage was, Grant Ward was, actually, in need a wife - as soon as possible.

Still, since it was rather _gauche_ to advertise for a wife, he advertised for a nanny instead.

He used his middle name and his legal surname - Douglas Ward - and not his public name of Grant Staunton (from his mother's maiden name of Staunton-Hand). He made no mention of who he was or of anything related to the job.

His friends, of course, mocked him endlessly. After incessant jokes about adopting children à la Brangelina and about baby mamas suing (he knows he doesn't have any out-of-wedlock children running about), it was Antoine Triplett who finally realized he was most certainly _not_ bluffing and sought to engage him on a serious level.

"Grant, this is ridiculous."

"How is it ridiculous?"

"You advertised for a nanny and, as we've been hilariously reminding you for the last two days, you don't have children. You don't even have pets. You don't even have _plants_."

"So?"

"What do you intend for this person to do all day?"

"It won't be all day every day. It will only be all day for two weeks or so."

Trip looked at him like he was drunk off his mind. "I have a bad feeling about this. What is it you need this poor woman to do all day for two weeks?"

"Be my wife."

Trip nearly choked on his food. "Be your wife." At Grant's raised eyebrow, he asked for confirmation: "You're getting married."

"I'm getting married."

"As in a ring."

"As in a ring, a contract, registration with the commonwealth of Massachusetts."

"Grant, you can't marry a woman you've advertised for on craigslist."

"I didn't advertise on craigslist." When Trip only gave him a look, Ward simply leaned back in his chair. "Why not?" He shrugged. "I'm not going to look for a wife in a bar, and I'm not going to go look for a wife at the posh parties we both detest attending - and don't protest, I know you hate them. I need somebody who's a dirt poor, quiet wallflower, but I want somebody with a little class - educated, understands manners."

"If you only need her for a few weeks, then why educated?"

"If I pick somebody too outrageous my father will know I'm trying to one up him."

"You _are_ trying to one-up him."

"He has to buy that I actually want to marry this woman. He knows I would be bored by a loud, classless woman and will assume I'm going to dump her; that won't work. He has to hate her but believe I'm completely serious about keeping her."

Trip sighed, running his finger around the rim of the coffee mug. "And so who are you going to pick?"

"I intend to pick some shrinking violet. Poor. Ordinary. Prim. Prudish, hopefully. That last one would drive my father crazy."

Trip was staring at him with a half-twist on his lips, an expression of disbelieving horror in his eyes. "Surely you're joking."

"Why would I be?"

"Please tell me you have a reason for what you're doing," Trip pleaded.

Ward sighed. "My father ordered me home. Says now that I'm almost thirty years of age, it's well time for me to start taking over the family businesses. Quite frankly, he's in terrible health, and he wants me installed at the head of his empire and settled down with a wife and children. To push me in that direction, he's invited an 'old friend' to come - with his daughter."

"He can't force you to marry her." Trip shrugged. "And it's not like you need his money. In the nine years since you left home, you've survived. In seven short years you've become a multimillionaire. You don't need to follow your father's dictums. You could just ignore him instead of doing this."

"Yes, I could. Or I could simply come home and refuse to marry. But my whole life has been about what a proper Ward does and doesn't do, and proper Wards marry women who will bring political, social, or financial status to the family. Marrying a nanny will, if it hasn't already, drive home that he doesn't control me."

"But he already does control you," Trip pointed out sagely. "The mere fact that you're marrying just to spite him shows you're still letting him mess with your head. Doing the exact opposite of an order doesn't make you free, Grant."

The millionaire pursed his lips, then glared, his only concession to the point. The other man didn't rub it in; he just raised an eyebrow. "And Grant," Trip continued, "marriage is a commitment - physical, spiritual, individual, social. It's not just a legal contract. If you marry the dullest woman you can find, _you_ will be unhappy. For life."

"She won't disrupt my life at all," Grant replied. "After these two weeks with my father, I'll pay her a pension to go off and live by herself; I'll never see her. She's a nanny, and she'll never have to work again in her life if she doesn't want to do so. Pretty cushy."

The other man shook his head disapprovingly. "You can't exile your wife, Grant."

Grant looked at his old friend, amused. "Trip, as you are well aware, very few people seem to take their vows seriously, especially the section about 'death do us part'."

"It doesn't mean you shouldn't try, you know." He paused. "Your father's going to know you did it to spite him the minute you divorce her."

"I don't intend to divorce her."

Trip blinked. "Then what was all that about sending her off to live by herself?"

"We'll live apart, but we'll remain married. It's the perfect excuse for me. I'm tired of this endless round of purposeless dating. If I got married, I wouldn't have to put up with people introducing me and trying to set me up on dates."

"Grant!" Trip was exasperated. "What if you have children? You can't separate your children from their mother."

"There will be no children. I've got one-hundred-percent-effective birth control."

"There's no such thing as one-hundred-percent-effective proof birth control."

"She can't get pregnant if I don't have sex with her. You forget that I don't actually want a _wife_-wife, just a 'piss-off-my-father' wife. If I don't have to speak to this woman at all I'll be delighted."

"What if she wants to get married to somebody else?"

"It's just ten years married to me. My father will be dead by then. She's being well-paid enough to last that long."

When Trip just sighed and shook his head disapprovingly, but said nothing, Grant knew the conversation was at an end.

His father's order-disguised-as-a-request showed he never really acknowledged Grant's independence. He thought his son would just come home. And as much as the younger Ward hated to admit it, his own rapid rise in the financial world of Boston wouldn't put his father off completely: the Ward patriarch no doubt liked the fact that his eldest son was honing his financial skills.

This marriage would send the message Grant had been wanting to send for the last decade: that his future was not for his father to decide.

Grant waited for replies to his advertisement, and they came quickly: email, phone calls, even some by the snail mail. Some applications he rejected completely - too young or too old. (Though picking an older woman might really irritate his father. Still, he'd occasionally been linked in tabloids to older women, and his father might not take the marriage seriously if he thought it was a fling.)

He interviewed a few candidates before discovering his ordinary, prim mouse in the fourth. Jemma Fitzsimmons had mousy brown hair that hung flatly around her head and looked dull under the lights in the room - not that there was much light, since she chose to stand in a shadowed part of the room. He almost missed seeing her entirely when he first met her. It struck him that she'd deliberately chosen to do that - to become the hidden nanny in the background, the one who would never try to seduce the father or to cause other trouble in the family. It was a calculated move to make a point.

"Jemma Fitzsimmons?"

"Yes, sir." Her voice was so soft he almost didn't hear it. She didn't raise her eyes from the floor. She was tiny, most likely barely five-foot-four, and her height (or lack of it) was accentuated by the worn, black ballet flats she wore. Grant noted that there was actually a hole in one of them, which she had artfully disguised by carefully trimming the loose threads and then putting a piece of black cloth on the inside of the shoe where the hole was. Her black shirt was no longer very black, faded and threadbare from endless number of washings, and the dull gray of her pants was already worn and lighter in color near the knees.

She was perfect. His father would be horrified.

"Please." He waved at a nearby chair.

She silently sat down, and he was both surprised and delighted to see her still sitting up straight, but with an ease of somebody who was used to sitting as such. She folded her hands into her lap and looked ahead, but not directly at him. She was _perfect_.

And this is how Grant Ward found his wife.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, author's note on part 1.

* * *

Jemma Fitzsimmons switched on the LED lamp. It made an eerie whitish light that made the studio apartment seem rather cold, but it burned so little power, so that's what she used. She continued with her sewing, glancing briefly at the pile of her own and her brother's clothes on her left - diminishing, thankfully - and the growing pile of clothes on the right. She tied a knot in the thread and cut it, then threw the shirt on the pile with the finished items.

Some of them she wouldn't be able to patch any more. Elbows, knees, inner thighs - all of those she'd already patched before, but when the patches wore down, there wasn't a whole lot more she could do. At least Leo had a kind professor, roughly a little larger than he was, who used to give him shirts which he didn't need (or his wife didn't want). It kept Leo in at least presentable clothing for presentations and interviews.

Normally, this was a two-person task. She and Leo would sit down together on a Saturday morning and begin to sew all the items which needed repairing. When finished, they would split up the next set of duties - one ironed the clothes, one cooked lunch. Tonight, she had taken on all the sewing herself in an attempt to settle her thoughts. Her mind kept straying to the scrap of paper on the desk, the basic facts of an advertisement she'd found on the Internet while using the computer at the library. She'd been formally unemployed for two months already despite spending over ten hours a day looking. Most of the jobs she could find weren't as money-saving as the one she wanted: as a live-in nanny, she would get room and board and her money could be sent home.

Nobody wanted her. She was too young for some, too old for others; too well-educated or too dumb, too high-born or too plain or too pretty or too short or what. The list was endless. Sometimes, however, it was the employer who was too pointed in the questioning.

There was no choice for her but to go to work. She was the oldest of six. Her younger brother Leo was barely a year younger than she, and then Penny was seven years younger. Their half-siblings were just children - ages 9, 7, and 6. If that weren't enough, they were deeply in debt and had been quite ignorant of it until their father had died four years ago. Then they had discovered his online gambling debts, totaling a million and a half pounds.

She remembered sitting there, gaping at her family friend and solicitor, as he relayed the bad news.

Neither their mother, who had always been in ill health after having Penny and had passed soon after, nor their kind stepmother, the mother of the three youngest, had known. Their stepmum had gone immediately to work at two jobs - and fallen asleep at the wheel one night coming home and had gotten hit by a drunk driver and promptly killed.

And so, at the age of twenty-one, Jemma Fitzsimmons had become the head of a debt-ridden household.

They had sold everything: the house, the assets, the stocks, everything. Everything her father had made as a doctor was sold; everything her parents had ever inherited was sold. It paid down two thirds of the debt. With interest, they still owed a shade under half a million pounds, and the creditors were not exactly willing to let the children off the hook.

The family solicitor suggested a move out of the country. They even changed their names.

She and Leo had been in university at the time, finishing accelerated programs to get both bachelor degrees and doctorates within a shortened number of years. She had zipped through her science courses, planning to finish the required non-science coursework later and get both degrees at one time. The plan had backfired horribly in light of her father's debts, and now she was left without even her BPhil. Leo had wisely at least gotten his bachelor's degree and was rushing to finish his doctorate. There was also the fact that as an engineer, he would make more money than she would in the pure sciences.

It was decided between them that he would go to school full time, rushing to finish so he could go to work for real - or, they would joke, to invent something so brilliant they could pay off Dad's debt. He had transferred to MIT, which had promised him a huge stipend and free housing, the latter an offer from his advising professor. She had gone with him, with the promise from Cambridge to hold her coursework until she could return.

Their stepmother's grandmother, a kind, elderly American lady from Idaho, offered to take the other four children into her tiny house outside Idaho Falls. Penny and the younger ones had gone to live with her. Cost of living there was so low that it was still cheaper to move out there than it was to stay in England, and buying bus tickets out to Idaho was still cheaper than having all the children together in Boston. For her generosity, the elderly lady was rewarded with the presence of family when she had to move into hospice care the next year and passed quietly a year and a half after that. The siblings kept in touch by email and by Skype; she and Leo had not seen their siblings in person for a year. Penny was doing as best she could with them.

On days when she was exhausted, Jemma fantasized about robbing a bank. Not seriously, of course.

When Leo came home, they sat down to supper, her weary brother barely managing to have a coherent conversation. He had not come home the night before, having stayed in the lab to monitor an experiment. He immediately woke up, though, when she mentioned the ad she'd found.

"It doesn't say how many children there are or what ages or genders they are," Jemma said when asked. "Or where they live, exactly. But you know these jetsetters - they'll be around the world as it is."

"Jemma, I don't like it."

"You don't like anything that doesn't involve me returning to finish school."

"Well, yes, but I dislike this even more than I dislike the others. And don't - don't!" he held up a hand " - quote to me about adventures and change. This is a suspicious ad, Jemma. Admit it."

"I do admit it does cause some - "

"I don't want you to even apply. It sounds like some pervert who's afraid to advertise what he wants publicly."

"Leo, I need work."

"You could go home to England. Anne's parents said they'd take you in - "

"I'm not going to rely on your girlfriend's parents any more than you were going to," she interrupted. "We're going to get out of this hole together and then _you_ can go home to her."

He smiled thinly. "If Anne can wait that long. I don't believe I should make her wait."

"I believe she'd wait much longer for you than you think," Jemma said warmly.

"Don't distract me," he replied. "Jemma, don't go, especially not to somebody who doesn't tell you the basics of your job. You're not cut out for this work. You know you aren't."

"I believe I do well with children."

"You do quite well with children, but you don't do well as a servant. You couldn't keep your opinions to yourself last time."

Jemma grimaced. "Leo, _you_ wouldn't have condoned it, either. The husband was basically forcing the maid - barely of age - to have sex with him and buying her silence by threatening to deport her for being an illegal immigrant. He was a horrible human being and deserved to be exposed. I can't help it if his wife didn't believe me."

"I know he was terrible, Jemma. I'm not questioning that. But the maid has a tongue - she could have spoken up for herself."

"She was afraid of losing her job."

"And so you lost yours for her," he pointed out.

She smiled a little sheepishly. So she had, but she wouldn't have changed a thing of it.

"Jemma, you can't fix everything, however much you try."

She knew he meant more than just the maid's circumstances. It was this debt thing, too. And her siblings' childhood fights. And a kitten stuck up in a tree. She'd always been a fixer; there was not much denying that. So she opted to say nothing.

At that, Leo sighed. "Four years ago you would have argued with me."

"I already have done."

"You know what I mean." Her brother rubbed his eyes, then smiled. "You remember our first year at Churchill - when Cambridge won that grant for running that big experiment, and Mike Peterson came into the lab?"

Jemma groaned, covering her face at the embarrassing memory.

"...'since you're so perfectly formed and everything,'" he imitated her in a high-pitched voice, both of them laughing. "'When did you stop talking?' all beet-faced."

She blushed, but she was laughing. "We were like giddy schoolchildren meeting a celebrity. He was so patient with us."

Leo nodded, his smile wistful. "He was." He sighed. "I miss that Jemma."

She laughed. "I doubt that."

"No, I do," he insisted. "Yes, you said ridiculous things - as did I. But I miss that: when you didn't have these worries, and when you were on top of the world, and people put up with your idiosyncracies because of how brilliant you were, and you didn't have to bow to others' expectations."

"Have I changed so much?" Jemma asked. "I'd hoped not."

"Quieter. Sadder." He hmphed. "I don't like it."

"You changed, also," she argued. "It's life, Leo. We just play the hand we're dealt."

He wasn't giving it up. "Go be with our family, Jemma," he said quietly. "Penny'll need help soon, anyhow, when she leaves for university next January. There are the three younger children to consider."

"Don't start that with me," she retorted, wagging a finger at him. "I know that you've been hoping I'll take the three younger ones home to England and go back to school."

He made a face at the table. She was the elder sister, and generally had the advantage in figuring out her younger siblings' plans. She really had the upper hand. "There's really few people who deserve to go to school as much as you do. You love homework as much as you love us," he mumbled.

"I appreciate what you're doing, Leo," she smiled, kissing him on the cheek. "I do. But I should try to help. I just wish there were more jobs open - besides the temp work I've been doing. I've interviewed every week, twice every other week, and nothing."

"So look in Idaho," Leo began, starting up his other usual comment. "Go be with our brothers and sisters. Penny could use the help, and you can work out there and be with family."

"We've already discussed this," Jemma said patiently. "The pay isn't as good, and I'd be a drain on the resources for room and board. Being a live-in nanny gives me a roof over my head and food. It allows me to save the money I make."

Leo still didn't look convinced.

"I'll just apply to this one. They may not even respond," Jemma pointed out, trying to be soothing. "Then perhaps you'll get your wish that I head off to Anne's or to be with Penny."

"As if you ever do anything I suggest," Leo grumbled.

* * *

Jemma turned out to be wrong. A mere three days after she sent her letter and résumé by email, she received a response for an interview. She said nothing to Leo, who was soon going to head off on a major project in South Africa. He still didn't like the idea behind the lack of information in the ad and seemed more comforted by the thought that Jemma wasn't going to pursue it, so she didn't mention anything to him.

After all, she told herself, the interview might come to nothing and then what was the point of worrying her brother?

She knew she had to behave quietly - seen but not heard. They wanted somebody who would love and manage the children but not embarrass the parents, to fade into the background, to be the quiet aide when needed but not take the limelight. She could do that, and she could do that quite easily and happily - just as long as nothing bad was going on.

She carefully folded her interview clothes and tucked them into a large bag, then put on her usual ratty tee-shirt and worn khaki pants. She walked the mile and a half, quite grateful for the relatively spring-ish weather - not too cool, but not terribly hot, either. She then quickly ducked into a nearby gas station and washed off and changed out of her dusty clothes before heading on to her final destination. She was well aware of the layout (and the marvelous historical architecture!) of Beacon Hill, having once been a nanny for a family there before they moved to Hong Kong.

Her knock at the door was answered by an older woman, who smiled but said very little as she took her jacket and her bag and then let her into the downstairs office, which was unlit except for the sunlight streaming in the windows. She shut the door behind her, and Jemma had a moment of panic, quickly scoping out the windows as an escape route. Still, she thought to herself ruefully, hurling herself through the window would just make the broken windows one more thing they had to add to their list of expenses.

The door opened.

He was young - Jemma estimated no more than thirty. He was tall and slim - wiry but elegant, rather than muscularly big. His eyes and his hair were very dark, and his face was thin and aristocratic, with sharp cheekbones. His short hair was combed and parted smartly. He was dressed in casual but expensive and tailored clothing: boat shoes, a pale blue linen shirt tucked into white linen pants.

These would all have been fine if everything about him hadn't looked so cruel and cynical. Jemma suppressed a shiver.

"Miss Fitzsimmons." His voice was emotionless, just as cold as she had expected. He wasn't even pretending to be charming, but that was a good thing, she told herself - he was looking for a nanny, not for somebody who should be charmed. Hopefully he saved his charm for his wife.

"Yes, sir," she said, keeping her voice low but her back straight. She was not going to be cowed by him.

"Please be seated." He waved towards the chair in front of his desk. Thankfully, it was out of the direct sunlight streaming in the window. She was grateful; she _hated_ interviews. She used to have a tendency to ramble, a habit beaten out of her very quickly by the last four years.

She seated herself and promised herself to answer the questions honestly - but as concisely as possible. She prayed silently for successful employment - and that he would not ask about her last employer.

* * *

Grant couldn't help but think, in his customary detached manner, that these were rather amusing circumstances.

After all, he was interviewing for a future wife.

"Your letters of recommendation are impressive." They were. They explained, without revealing much, why a woman of twenty-four and her alleged intellect did not have a bachelor's degree or the equivalent. They also vouched for her honesty and her ability to manage children. There were also positive reviews from the temp agency, who had sent her on two different temporary jobs. "But I see nothing from your last full-time employer." He looked up at her, eyebrow raised.

Grant Ward knew exactly what had happened at her last nanny job. That's why he had Mark Lockwood on payroll as head of security. He wanted to see what _she_ would say.

She was not very good at dissembling: he could see the ever so slight droop in her shoulders. He deduced rather quickly that her ability to maintain her calm was due to force of personality - and perhaps the sad fate of having experienced far too much already that a bad interview was peanuts compared to what else she had suffered.

She wisely said nothing. After all, he had not asked a question.

"Explain."

There was a long silence. "I was dismissed," she said quietly, simply. Matter-of-fact, no embellishments, no excuses.

That's what Mark had told him, in the background report. Dismissed from James Fitzgerald's, though, and so when Mark had told him that, Grant had waved off the rest of the report. James Fitzgerald was a well-known a** who had slept with (or tried to, anyhow) most of his young female employees. There were three possibilities for younger nannies who agreed to go into the Fitzgerald household: they didn't know of the family's reputation, they were desperate for money and willing to take the risk, or they were on the hunt for something. Given Mark's report, it was clear Jemma Fitzsimmons had fallen into one of the two previous categories: she had been dismissed for standing up for an abused maid.

Still, Grant wanted to see how she would react to difficult circumstances, so he pressed. He feigned surprise and disapproval at her comments. "Dismissed," he repeated, disdain in his voice. "And why is that?"

"I - my employer said I had lied," she said quietly.

He waited. She said nothing more, much to his surprise: she made no attempt to explain or to justify the comment. "And did you lie?"

He rather suspected he already knew the answer to that question.

"No, sir."

Just as he had guessed. She was too honest to lie on her résumé, too honest to lie in the interview.

He felt a kinship. He knew how it was to be accused of something - wrongly.

"Have you interviewed since your dismissal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you been employed since your dismissal?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?" Why not? Because she seemed as interesting as cardboard. Nobody would want to hire a colorless bore to watch their children.

"It is because every interviewer has asked me what you just have," she said softly.

Ah. Of course.

Interesting, that. "Why don't you just lie?" he pointed out. Easy way around her problem. "Say you left of your own free will? I'm sure the employer would be all right with something along the lines of 'we didn't see eye to eye.' Little white lie, everybody's satisfied." James Fitzgerald couldn't risk another blow to his reputation. He'd have to lie to back her up just so he wouldn't be exposed again.

"I...have considered it," she said quietly. "But I have not done."

So she hadn't.

Stupid interviewers, Grant mused, who didn't realize somebody who wouldn't lie on a résumé and in the interview and didn't even bother attempting to justify herself most likely hadn't lied to her employer, either. He rather suspected, though, that those who did not hire Miss Fitzsimmons actually did believe her side of the story but were more interested in keeping in the good graces of the Fitzgeralds.

She was a very ethical and drab little mouse. Somebody had once told her not to lie, so she stuck stubbornly to it, to her own disadvantage. She was a Puritan right to the Bostonian core. His father would have a heart attack.

And if he could piss off the Fitzgeralds as well as his father, so much the better.

He grinned, a feral smile. "I have an offer for you."

~| tw |~

He read the contract with an amused eye. So, Miss Jemma Fitzsimmons was just as smart as her professors thought her. She'd wheeled and dealed with his lawyer and got herself a tidy sum - no doubt more money than she saw in a lifetime, but of very little concern to him.

He had proposed a quarter of a million dollars as an annual income. She could select a home anywhere in the United States, and he would provide her a working vehicle to go with that home. He would pay the salaries of her chef, her housekeeper, and her landscaper - after all, he had to keep tabs on her somehow. She would remain married to him for ten years - any infidelity would cause everything to be nullified and she would be required to repay anything she had received over that time - not that this would be a problem, given how honest she had been in the interview. She would need to take his name, at least somewhere - hyphenated was fine. There was, of course, a non-disclosure agreement with the media.

At the end of the ten years, it was up to her - should she never marry or take up with somebody else, he would continue the annual income. Should she decide to marry, he would pay her a lump sum of a million dollars, supply a divorce certificate, and they would part ways.

She had renegotiated with his lawyer, who had seemed to Grant to be rather amused by the whole thing - not the least because she referred to him as a solicitor twice.

Grant would be paying out to her half a million dollars every year for four years, going down to fifty thousand for every year after that. In case she predeceased him within the first four years of the contract, he still had to pay out the half-million for four years - to a solicitor in England. In case he predeceased her within those first four years, his estate was to continue to pay out that two million dollars, whether over four years or in a lump sum upon his death.

She wanted no employees; she would run the house herself. She had chosen what he considered to be a small home of four bedrooms and two bathrooms of 1500 square feet, in one of Boston's suburbs. To complete that very middle class existence, she'd asked for a Honda four-door sedan. The last two he'd have to re-negotiate. She was still going to be his wife; he had to keep up appearances, in the off-chance somebody figured out who she was.

Overcompensating, he thought as he read the contract. She was overcompensating in the second half for demanding so much money up front. He briefly wondered why, then dismissed the thought. What did he care? She would be gone in two weeks, anyhow.

She had demanded to see the agreement in writing before she signed it, then immediately requested a personal copy. He had no doubt that to her, this was most likely some horrible joke and somebody would jump out with a video camera any second.

There had been only one thing which had made him question his decision. After answering easily why had had not simply hired an actress to play the part - he needed his father to realize the legitimacy of the marriage for the long term - she had then asked, "What happens when you meet the lady you truly wish to marry?"

He had been cynically amused and was unable to keep the sneer out of his voice. "There is no woman with whom I'd want to spend more than a month."

At that, she'd looked up at him, her big eyes a fathomless, warm hazel - troubled, and even sad. They were so deep - and this was the first time he considered that marrying Jemma Fitzsimmons might perhaps be a horrible, horrible mistake.

* * *

Jemma looked at the two worn suitcases, hers on the left and Leo's on the right. He had already packed his the night before. Tomorrow morning he was headed away for a six-week project in South Africa; he'd leave at dawn when his work mates would come and get him. He'd miss seeing her leave, but it was for the best that he didn't know the details of her new assignment. He might kill her new employer, and she didn't especially wish to add murder to their list of problems.

She, too, was leaving tomorrow.

By the time Leo came home, everything would be done. Jemma would have enough money to pay off Dad's debt and pay back the myriad of family friends who had helped them by digging into their life savings, _besides_ having her and the children's living expenses covered. Leo could finish school and immediately go home to Anne. Penny would be relieved of her very grown-up burden of raising three children. She herself could finally finish school. And if she used her money wisely, she could set aside enough money to ensure college educations for the three youngest.

She was not being paid to be the best nanny ever. She was being paid to be a wife.

When Doug Ward - well, Grant Douglas Ward - had first announced his plans, she'd bolted for the door, thinking about Leo's warning about a pervert's advertisement. Now she was agreeing to it.

He wanted a temporary wife - well, temporary in that they would only be together for two weeks, long enough to piss off his father. There were no children, nor did Grant Ward want any. She was then to remain married to him legally for the next ten years, and he would provide her more money than she'd ever seen in her life.

She had done the right thing, she tried to tell herself.

* * *

For Grant Ward's own wedding, there was none of the dazzle that accompanied most weddings, especially those society weddings he had attended all his life. He didn't have it at a church - seemed rather sacrilegious, what he was doing, anyhow - and he didn't even go to the courthouse. It would be too much tabloid fodder if the head of Staunton showed up at the courthouse with an unnamed woman, and he couldn't tip off his hand to his father too early. He needed this to be a cruel surprise.

He had an Anglican minister friend - a close friend who had walked him through his estrangement from his family and supplied everything from an extra bed to sleep on to spiritual advice. But Daniel had flatly refused this time to help him: "Grant, I love you like a brother, but I cannot approve of what you're doing."

"Half of marriages end in divorce anyhow, Daniel."

"I'm well aware that we mock the institution enough both in and outside of the church by what we do. It doesn't mean we throw the baby out with the bathwater."

"You'd still be there to pick up the pieces if it went south," Grant pointed out.

"Yes, but I don't intend to be a part of _making_ it into pieces," Daniel had retorted. "And don't start in on me. I know Rob Denning refuses to serve as a witness."

Grant conceded the point. His old friend had flatly refused to serve as a witness, shaking his head and pleading with him to skip this step. Grant deeply admired both Dan and Rob, but he continued to press on. Soon, he hit upon Trip's brother to do the ceremony. Both were trying to dissuade him straight up to the time it began.

He sent a (disapproving) Mark Lockwood to pick up his fiancée - odd term, that, given their circumstances - and anybody else she wanted there. They were waiting at his home when the housekeeper let her and Lockwood in.

"Jerome, Antoine, Jemma Fitzsimmons," Grant said, making curt introductions. "Miss Fitzsimmons, Jerome Triplett, Massachusetts Appeals Court, and Antoine Triplett, pediatric surgeon at Children's Hospital of Boston."

"My l - my pleasure to meet you, sir," she murmured, shaking hands with the judge first, then turning to Antoine. "Mr. Triplett."

"Pleasure's all mine," Antoine smiled, a genuine smile as he kissed the back of his hand.

Grant rolled his eyes.

"May I have a minute, sir?" she asked, quietly, then quickly fled when he nodded.

"Lord have mercy," Jerome muttered.

"He's going to have to show us both mercy for doing this," Antoine retorted. "Grant, you can't destroy her life like this."

"I'm giving her half a million dollars a year," Grant replied in a tone which said the conversation was over. "Lockwood, did anybody come with her?"

The older man shook his head. "No. Nobody was waiting, either. She was standing on the corner with her bag, and I didn't notice anybody looking out of the nearest houses."

"She'll have friends enough when she gets her money," Grant replied cynically. "She'll have to beat them off with a stick."

The ceremony was conducted like a court hearing. Jerome Triplett spoke, he spoke, she spoke, Antoine gave him the rings. When requested, he leaned over and pecked her lightly on the corner of her mouth. He half-expected Antoine to hoot a request for a better kiss, but his old friend had the wisdom to keep quiet.

His new wife did not look at him the entire ceremony.

Jerome handed him the license. "I believe I just sold my soul to devil," the judge grumbled.

"I owe you one."

"Make that your firstborn."

"Congratulations, Mrs. Ward," Antoine was saying to Jemma.

She smiled weakly, a blush on her cheeks.

"Pretty enough to grace the society pages," he joked. "Ah, what the ladies of Boston would do to be in your place as the first lady of Staunton."

She blinked, her already-wavering smile slowly disappearing. "What?"

"Your husband. He's the owner of Staunton, the fine arts auction house; his public name is Grant Staunton. He's also one of the major sponsors of the David - "

" - Koch Institute at MIT," she finished, her voice small.

"Ah, so he didn't tell you," Triplett looked amused, but shook a chastising finger at Grant.

"You are Jemma Fitzsimmons Staunton as well as Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward," Grant replied without ceremony.

She looked up at him, finally, with wide and troubled eyes - and Grant literally shifted a step back from her. He really should have taken into more consideration those eyes before he agreed to marry her.

~| tw |~

Robert had stopped by, right before lunch. He still glared at Grant, and he greeted the woman with careful caution. He spoke with her a few moments, and then took out a business card and wrote something on it before handing it to her.

"An escape route?" Grant asked with a raised eyebrow, his amusement obvious only to his old friend.

"From you, yes," Robert retorted, his English accent thickening in his disapproval. "By the way, Elizabeth's horrified. She'd fly over here and punch you if the doctor didn't order her to stay grounded for the last month until the baby's born. She's still miffed at me for not punching you for her."

"Tell her I love her, too," Grant replied dryly.

Robert shook his head, then gripped his friend's hand tightly. "I might not approve, Grant, but call me if you need anything."

With that, he had blown out the door into the waiting car.

Grant had left a message with his father's household manager to let him know to expect them tonight. He had not mentioned his wife was coming.

As he waited for her to get into the car, he felt an odd feeling of pity for her. It was odd on two counts - he rarely had any sympathetic feelings for anybody, and besides, he had just promised her a future far better than any she could have looked forward to. Perhaps it was the fact that she was so alone that struck him. He was rather irritated at being unable to shake it.

He noted idly that her jacket was worn, the edges fraying at the wrists and the waist.

~| tw |~

She was married. She had never quite thought of marriage in the last few years - since assuming responsibility for her family, she had put any plans for weddings out of her head. There was no way she could afford to pay for any part of a wedding. In addition, she couldn't marry without subjecting her husband to her family's debts, and she could not do that to somebody she loved. She had assumed that by the time she and Leo and Penny could get out from under Dad's debt, it would be years down the road, and so she'd put away her girlish dreams and got on with it. No sense in mourning what hadn't happened anyhow.

And now, suddenly, within the space of two astonishing days, she had been proposed to and was married. Gone into the home as just Jemma Fitzsimmons and emerged as Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward - and apparently as Jemma Fitzsimmons Staunton, as well.

"I - so am I a Ward or a Staunton?" she finally blurted.

"Legally, a Ward," he replied in that same short, clipped tone. "And as we won't live together, you needn't worry about the social obligations of the Staunton part, either."

He didn't say any more after that. She had come to realize how taciturn a man it was she had married. He had said nothing as he escorted her to the car, where Lockwood was waiting. He had said nothing as the two men loaded in her things, and even though her small, ratty suitcase had clearly surprised him. He had said nothing, only looked at her, then at Lockwood, who shrugged. Their silent communication seemed to satisfy him, and he stepped aside to let her into the car first.

He seemed very dark. His hair was dark, nearly black, as was his eyes - the latter a more frightening prospect for her. They were also quite shuttered, as if a heavy curtain blocked everything inside from anybody looking at him. They were set in a beautiful face - with cheekbones sharp enough to cut - but the whole effect was cold, standoffish at best, and chilling on a good day.

"I am the eldest son of John Garrett Ward, the multimillionaire. We're traveling to his home so I can present my wife to him."

She noted that he had referred to the place as his father's home - not his.

"Why didn't you want your father to know about your marriage? And why me?" she asked. "I believe that one of your - somebody like you or your father would be looking for a spouse more of...your...type."

His smile was clean - white teeth, perfect lips - and so cold, feral. The smile did not touch his eyes. "That's the point."

So he'd married her to spite his father, it seemed. "You and your father have quarrelled," she concluded.

His grin widened. It wasn't a mischievous grin but a cruel one. "The angrier my father is, the happier I am."

"So I am the pawn in your game," she replied, not able to keep the disapproval from her tone. Family should not act like this.

"A well-paid pawn," he retorted. "Remember what side your bread is buttered on."

It was a good thing, she thought, that they would only be together two weeks and no more. She did not like Grant Ward. What kind of person did something so huge as _marrying_ just to spite somebody else?

Not that she could talk. She'd married for money, married a man she didn't know anything about. It was not a nice thing to think about.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Since Ghostfile mentioned this in a review: "The Temporary Wife" is a Regency romance novel (so there had to be some modern updating for this FF). No doubt y'all will laugh, but for those who like me have no experience with romance novels, there are some lovemaking scenes which caught me off-guard - just so you're warned. (Hey, my experience with "romance" didn't go much further than Jane Austen, who I consider something of a satirist!) The story is fine, but the reason I remember it was because, as I mentioned earlier, I saw a parallel to my OTP.

As an introduction to this part: Len and Celia ARE "SHIELD" characters. Just be aware that there's not an one-to-one character correspondence: one "SHIELD" character might show up as two separate characters; some might have reduced "airtime"; relationships will be different (and ages are different). I just hope that the characters are identifiable by their character traits.

* * *

The trip was, to put it mildly, a disaster. The impending summer storms blowing in from the Atlantic and the Midwest had delayed the flights and shut down the ferries, and so Lockwood had gassed up the car. Although the man could drive through a hurricane - apparently he'd driven Humvees in minefields in Iraq - it didn't make the trip any more pleasant. The drive to Sagaponack on Long Island ended up taking twice as long as it should have.

Lockwood had insisted on stopping twice, and Jemma had used those chances to use the restroom and to splash water on her face. Both times she almost bolted, but where would she go? She had no money to get home to Boston. And, she kept reminding herself, she was doing this for Leo - for Penny and for the others.

By the time they pulled onto Long Island, the storms had passed, leaving it with cool post-storm freshness. The only downside was how late the hour was, even for early summer. She could see some houses in the moonlight, but not enough to get a good look.

"What is - " she paused. He did not like his home, but it was his home, nonetheless. " - your childhood home like?" she asked. This was what had to be the fifteenth, eighteenth attempt to initiate conversation. He'd given curt, nearly rude answers to each to shut her down, but she continued to try to initiate polite conversation.

"Big." Now he was being rude and not merely skirting it. He seemed to know this and decided to offer more information. "Tudor Revival façade, because my father thought it matched the more agricultural area," he replied disdainfully. "As much stone as could be fitted into it. Lawns, flower beds, trees. Open to the water. Indoor and outdoor pools. Two guest homes on the property, one four thousand square feet, the other three. Right now the four thousand is being used as a laboratory; there are forty acres tied to experimental farming."

"Forty!" she breathed to herself, her voice admiring. Even in the dark, Grant Ward could see her eyes shining as she quickly looked out the window, as if she could see everything in the dark. He remembered vaguely her résumé saying something about her studies in the sciences at the Churchill College at Cambridge University. He did note now that she had been aware of the Koch Institute, but then many knew of it. So his wife was interested in science. That was something to know; not that it surprised him.

"It's a large place. My father has his hand in several businesses. Your husband will be far richer than he already is and well able to keep you in a nice house for the rest of your life."

"Is your mother living? Do you have other family?"

"My mother was in ill health for a long time and died not long after giving birth to the youngest. There are four of us." He did not want to talk about his mother, nor the many miscarriages besides the four surviving children. "Two brothers. One sister." Phil would be twenty-one now, Ada nine. She was twenty, almost twenty-one, years younger than he himself was. He did not think of Len.

"You must have missed them so much," his wife said, her voice wistful - as though she herself were missing family she'd never met.

He was roused to unusual resentment, though exactly over what he could not say. His voice was sharp. "I haven't seen any of them in nine years, by my own choice. I haven't communicated with them in that long, either. My father is ill and has called me down, no doubt so he can rail at me for days about the things I haven't done yet and a long list of my weaknesses. Apparently I'm not fit to be the eldest, to be his heir, and this is his last chance to yell about it."

Her large eyes had widened even more, if possible, and it just served to irritate him. Had he seen them during the interview, he would not have hired her. He felt himself in very great danger from those troubled hazel eyes. "It must have been an awful fight," she said, more to herself than to him. "You must have been horribly hurt."

"Spare me your superficial psychological mumbo jumbo," he snapped. "You're being well paid to be quiet."

He hated himself for the twinge of guilt he felt when hurt flickered across her face. Brushing it off, he went on. "Don't bother trying to impress them. I will do all the talking. My father believes I'm out on some rich boy's version of Rumspringa and am now returning to the fold, preferably to marry some brilliant upper-class wife so I can fulfill his other social-climbing ambitions."

"So your marriage to me will devastate him," she replied flatly.

"Of course. I married a nanny without even a bachelor's degree. At least I didn't marry a Kardashian or somebody from the Jersey shore." He shrugged. "Just keep quiet, don't say a word, and follow me. Be my silent shadow. Nobody will dare insult you to your face. I am your husband; I will step in."

She considered this a moment, then asked with quiet sagacity, "Who will protect me from _your_ insults?"

He was stunned for a moment. He had not expected her to respond. He schooled his features to a cold, fire-freezing glare as he thought up a response. "You're being paid to put up with my insults," he retorted, more harshly than he intended.

"So I am," she replied calmly.

He did not like it. And although she had conceded verbally, he rather felt like he was about to witness some surprise attack from her, that she had just declared a silent war he would lose - horribly. As a final jab, he snapped, "And drop your phony American accent. Nobody in my family will buy it."

Some surprise and hurt flickered across her face. He had silenced her. He sat back with some satisfaction, but unfortunately not as much as he had assumed he would feel for landing that final shot.

He did not like the guilt he felt for hurting her.

* * *

Jemma was not without knowledge of large estates. They were so many in England, beautiful ancient homes of varying sizes. She'd visited Belton House and Chatsworth and Highclere Castle (which she always thought of as Totleigh Towers) and Lyme Park. In the States, as a nanny, she likewise had lived in lovely homes - very different to the ones she'd visited as a child, but wonderful in a different way: country homes with pools and gyms and music rooms and large entertaining areas and beautiful gardens with fountains, and city homes with nineteenth century architecture and high ceilings and stone fireplaces and marvelous original hardwood floors.

But she'd never thought of what it was like to live there as family, rather than an employee. Her own home when she was younger was a good-sized home, befitting a doctor as her father was, but it had been four years since she'd even thought of it. All that was a lifetime ago.

In the dark and from a distance, even with the lighting from ground, she had mistaken the first guesthouse for the main house and felt quite stupid when they drove past it, thus revealing to her her mistake. It was still so beautiful, larger than anything she had lived in herself - and it was just a guest house.

The driveway wound up to the house, and Jemma felt her apprehension growing. Even if she'd come as a nanny, she would have been nervous, but now she was coming with the express purpose of being the mousey wife of the estranged eldest son, who had married her to spite his father.

_Leo Penny Mary Howie Davey Leo Penny Mary Howie Davey_

She'd done the right thing, hadn't she?

~| tw |~

He snorted in amusement as he watched the front doors open. The car pulled up, and Lockwood came around to open the door. Her husband climbed out first, then reached in as she scooted towards the door. He gave her his hand to help her out before turning towards the open doorway, not bothering to look at her. Only Lockwood gave her a small nod of encouragement as the newlywed couple faced the open door.

One row were a few employees, one row was clearly family - she could tell by the clothing. It was nearly midnight, but they looked as fresh as if reporting for duty in the morning.

Her husband ascended the steps, and she followed several steps behind. As he moved towards his father, she followed, only to be held back. She looked up in surprise to see the stern look of the female household manager, who was glaring at her. "You'll stay here until the family's done."

"Oh, I'm afraid not," she smiled, but, on a whim, still stepped in with the household manager. She liked following rules and not causing a ruckus. And she was sure it would make the reveal all the more horrifying if she stood with the employees, and that would make her - husband? employer? - happy.

Good night, she thought. They most likely thought she was his maid, who did his cleaning. They most likely wondered why he'd brought his own maid. Or perhaps they thought she was some cheap floozy he was sleeping with. It was all rather ironic: she was not cheap - he would be paying millions of dollars for her care; a floozy - she was not one, thank you very much; or sleeping with her husband, in either of the iterations of the term - he had made that very clear.

The man was shaking hands with his father. _Shaking hands_. Everybody else in the group just stood watching - nobody broke ranks to greet the brother who had been gone nine years. It was horrifying.

It was sad, she thought. How cold. It would be nothing like what would happen when she returned home, where her siblings would come running the minute they saw her, and shouting and clamoring to hug her and to get their kisses from her, and there would be a fight over who got to hold her hands. But for her husband, all there was was a polite murmuring, more handshakes. She was glad at this moment to be his shadow; this was just awful.

Then he turned, looking around in puzzlement for a brief moment before his eyes fell on her, standing in the line between the houshold manager and a young man who seemed to do the outside landscaping work for the family. Her husband raised an eyebrow inquiringly, but she didn't respond; he held out his hand to her, and she stepped forward, resisting the urge to look back at the household manager. It was just seconds before she crossed the foyer and placed her hand in his, but it seemed ages; her knees felt week, and she had to force one foot in front of the other. She was doing this for _her_ family, she reminded herself.

So this was the moment of her husband's triumph.

Well, she certainly looked the part, as she felt her father-in-law's eyes sweep over her in disapproval. Her polo shirt was faded into two different shades of blue from repeated washings, and the cloth holding the buttons had to be mended after it tore. In addition, the shirt was a man's; it had been her brother's, when he'd suddenly shot up a few more inches and couldn't wear it any more, and she'd just hemmed it to fit her own height. Her khaki pants were faded at the knees, even worn; the waistband was fraying and the hem was clearly hand-sewn. She wore no belt - her last one, her stepmum's, had broken and it just hadn't been an expense she'd deemed necessary to spend, as her clothes held up on her hips just fine. Her black flats were her only decent pair, besides a pair of old sneakers, and the hole was evident in the harsh light of the foyer.

By contrast, her husband was dressed expensively, in a white poplin shirt with a Nehru collar and rolled sleeves and khaki-colored linen pants and pair of light loafers. His family was dressed similarly. While they were certainly not flashy in appearance, there was little doubt this was a Hamptons family.

It suddenly occurred to her that with her blue polo and her khaki pants, she might be mistaken for a Walmart or Best Buy employee. That thought made her smile to herself, against all odds and circumstances.

"Sir. My wife, Jemma. Jemma, this is John Garrett Ward."

'Sir'. 'John Garrett Ward'. He didn't even call him 'Dad' or 'Papa' or anything. That must have been one terrible fight.

"Well, well." The look on the man's face changed one hundred and eighty degrees from its earlier, cold disapproval to one of clearly feigned welcome. Instead of shaking the proffered hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. "So this is the lady who captured my son's heart."

No wonder her husband was the way he was, she thought. As wide as his father's smile was, and as charming as his words and his actions were, there was no warmth to it - rather, an Arctic chill, as evidenced by the glacial, shuttered look in the man's eyes. She nearly shivered, but she did not. Behind him, she could see her husband's jaw set, the only indication he was not pleased.

They did not look much alike. John Ward was shorter, stockier, and possessed what seemed to be a more open face, but looks were deceiving. He could have at once been more open, more friendly, but it was a façade. Jemma almost preferred her husband's morose, curt nature. At least it was more honest.

"Introduce your wife to your brothers and your sister," his father instructed.

It was clear, by the short introduction and subsequent dismissal, that her husband's father was horrified. He would have been more welcoming otherwise.

"Aunt Victoria." Grant moved next to a tall woman, whose angular features more resembled his own. She must be a maternal aunt, Jemma thought, and Grant's features took after his mother, not his father. "My wife, Jemma. Jemma, my aunt."

The woman's eyes swept over her, and she hmphed softly, her eyes taking in her nephew's new wife with clear disapproval. She did not extend a hand, as was proper for the older towards the younger, and so Jemma simply offered as polite and genuine a smile as she could muster. She didn't know how much more she could take of this.

"Len." The strain in her husband's voice told Jemma that this homecoming wasn't as emotionless as he had led her to believe. He was shaking hands now with a young man who was clearly his brother. The younger Ward was perhaps half-a-foot shorter than her husband, with lighter brown-colored hair in short, tight curls and a wary look in his blue eyes. It seemed he had taken after their father more than the older Ward son had. Still, the two men had to be very close in age.

"Celia." The woman who now smiled and shook Grant's hand was extremely beautiful: dark hair in long waves down her back; slightly darker skin; dark, luminous eyes with a mischievous twinkle, as if planning something goofy and fun. She wore a loose red sundress.

"Grant," they both echoed. Len's voice was tight, full of tightly controlled emotion. Celia's was bright, melodic. Jemma wondered if she was a singer.

"Jemma." Grant guided her forward with a hand at the small of her back. "My brother, Leonard - we call him Len - and his wife, Celia."

She greeted them with a smile, but Len only looked at her. Celia shook her hand silently, but her eyes danced with a genuine warmth and a bright welcome that gave Jemma a bit more strength to go on.

"Philip." The statement was more a question. Like Len, he was smaller, his hair a shade between his two older brothers'. He had a boy-next-door look about him. He was much younger, though - college age, it seemed. Nine years' absence would mean Grant had missed his teenage years. When Jemma extended her hand for him to shake, he shook it stiffly. He said nothing.

The youngest was a girl - Jemma guessed about eight or nine, and certainly not older than ten. That meant that she would not remember at all her long-absent eldest brother. She was dressed well and her hair done, and she was so still for somebody so young. She looked like Grant - taller, dark haired and dark eyed. She would be striking when she was older, a stately, majestic beauty rather than an adorably pretty one.

"Ada." His voice was softer, almost gentle - a big surprise to Jemma. "I am your brother, Grant. This is my wife, Jemma."

"You look lovely in green," Jemma smiled as she held out her hand. "And I'm very pleased to meet you."

She gave the hand a limp, cold shake. "Sir. Ma'am."

Well, that was the end of this torture session, Jemma though. It was a disaster, by her estimation. Though, perhaps that's what would have happened even if she weren't here. Who was to know?

"Mrs. Dorset," John Ward spoke. "Please take Mrs. Ward to their suite of rooms and settle her in; make sure their things are brought. Grant, a moment."

"Thank you," she said automatically, more a reaction, and then barely hesitated before adding, "Dad."

Family and employees visibly stiffened, but there were no gasps of surprise - one could hear a pin drop in the overwhelming silence. For all she'd done, Jemma might have run around flapping her arms like a chicken and gotten the same response. The insane Walmart employee who thanked people and called her father-in-law 'Dad'? She couldn't help a small smile again. She quickly ducked her head and started to follow the manager out of the foyer.

"I'll be up in a minute, love." She looked up at that, her husband brushing her hand with his, giving her a gentle smile.

Her own nearly fell off her face. He had not mentioned pretending an affection for her to be part of his big plan - but then he'd said very little about what he intended to do _during_ their two week marriage; he'd been focused on hammering out the legalities of what would happen _after_.

"I apologize," the manager said stiffly when they were out of earshot. "We did not know Mr. Ward would bring a wife."

"Oh, please think nothing of it," Jemma replied graciously. "I've already forgotten it." Still it was clear that the very proper manager would not forget her rather large _faux pas_ any time soon, having asked the heir's wife to stand with the servants.

The suite was enormous. There was a large study, a large bedroom, a large closet, a large sitting room - well, Jemma thought ruefully, everything seemed large to her. Still, she sure the bathroom was the size of Leo's small studio flat - a separate toliet and a bidet off to the side, separated by a half-wall, double sinks, a large soaker tub, a separate but still large shower, and a vanity.

She wandered over to the window in the living area and looked out. In the moonlight and the twinkling walkway lights around the estate, she could see the beautiful expanse of the property, even dimly. It was beautiful.

There was a knock at the door, and then a young man with two suitcases - her husband's larger one, and hers. "Luggage, Mrs. Dorset."

"Right here," she replied, holding the door open. When only two cases came in and the young man left, she raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing. Still, her shock and disdain were not unnoticed. Jemma had dealt with that for awhile, though, in her other jobs, and had learned to let these things roll of her back. No matter what others thought, she was Jemma Fitzsimmons, and that was good enough. No need to get defensive about it.

It now made sense to her why Grant wanted her the way she was. Everything she owned was shabby. It was modest and professional, but shabby and drab nonetheless. It was intentional. Her presence was a humiliation to his family. _She_ was supposed to be a humiliation to his family. It was not an easy pill to swallow.

But she'd done the right thing. Of course.

* * *

Grant was torn emotionally now in the same way he had been when he left. He despised it. It was a weakness, and his father had always criticized that in him.

Still, he couldn't help but be concerned. His father looked much like he had when Grant had first left nine years ago - except his skin was an unhealthy gray, and there were myriad spots on his skin. "How is your health, sir?"

His father completely ignored the question. "You married recently."

"Is that what your spies told you?" Grant replied, his tone still pleasant - light and cheerful because, rather delightfully, his father was so irritated. Of course his father kept tabs on him. Grant had done the same, checking up on his father and his siblings. It was part of the reason he kept Mark Lockwood around.

"Who is she?"

"Your spies aren't very good if they couldn't tell you that," Grant replied, his tone lazy but tinged with mirth. When his father didn't respond, he replied, "she's a nanny. Was a nanny, anyhow, before marrying me."

"Seduced by pretty eyes and smile, charming accent, and bold impertinence," his father grumbled. "You're still as weak as when you left."

The comment was meant to get a rise out of him, but Grant schooled his features not to react, simply by latching onto the 'bold impertinence' part. There was nothing impertinent about Jemma Fitzsimmons - Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward. She most likely loved rules. And homework. Yes, that seemed to be her. And seductive? It was hard to see her as a femme fatale, not with that honest and kind face. Clearly his father knew nothing about her, and that made Grant even more satisfied.

Though, he had to concede one point: the accent was more charming than Grant had anticipated. She had lightened her voice to effect her American accent, and hearing her natural timbre and natural accent was something else.

Evidently his smile of disdainful amusement was even more irritating to his father than anything he could have said, because his father launched into something harsher. "You married her to defy me. You know you needed to marry somebody who could live this lifestyle. You chose somebody with questionable manners and shabby all around."

"Mm," he replied with barely concealed glee. "Her manners must come from not having finished college." He and his father both knew the tidbit was designed to incite the older Ward even further, and despite knowing this, the man in question still got angrier.

"You chose her deliberately," John Ward snapped.

"Yes." Grant raised his eyes to his father, his amusement gone. "For love."

He hadn't planned to claim a love marriage. In fact, he'd not considered anything at all. He'd been so consumed in convincing Jemma Fitzsimmons to go along with his plan he hadn't given much thought to the actual plan itself, beyond enjoying a perverse satisfaction at seeing his father angry. But this new thought had suddenly occurred to him the moment she had smiled - it was a soft, quiet smile, as if something funny had occurred to her. It was a beautiful smile - lighting up her face and bathing the harshly-lit, cold foyer with a soft warmth. He had felt it the minute he'd seen it.

Claiming he loved her would infuriate his father even more. The man constantly harped on how weak Grant was, to have attachments like that. To be cutthroat in business he couldn't have attachments, and so he should have calculated to find a spouse fitting of his position. The idea that the Ward heir indiscreetly married some poor nanny without a college degree - and for _love_ - would have struck his father as a complete waste, as defiance of all his father had built.

Which was the point, of course.

His father was not done. "She's dressed like a %$&* Walmart employee," he spat. "Dorset thought she was some employee of yours."

Ah. So that's why she'd been standing behind them, with the household manager and the male employee who had carried up their luggage. Grant wondered if that was what his new bride was smiling about, amused by the circumstances. "I like her how she is." Although Grant did wonder what she had in that little suitcase. Her worn little bag was smaller than his.

"Settle in. Breakfast is at 8. And," his father snapped, "familiarize your wife with how we operate."

Grant looked at him for several moments, then moved to the door silently. He had adored his father as a boy, as boys are wont to do. He took after his mother physically, and desperately wished he'd looked like his father. He'd shaped his life around pleasing him, even when his father lied. Every failure was a weakness, and his father hated weakness, but it seemed that no matter what Grant did he could never please his father.

His father never hit him in punishment. But physical punishment did not denote lack of love - or lack of self-control. His father was abusive in a different way: he had never showed him any attention or affection, except to criticize and then to abandon him. Grant had learned to survive on his own from necessity.

If John Ward had shown love to others, Grant might have been merely wistful. But he showed love to nobody, including his own wife, Grant's mother. And when the Ward heir had tried to get him to see the newborn Ada, born just a few weeks before the Ward matriarch had passed, John Ward had refused.

And so Grant had left.

And now he was back. But on his own terms.

* * *

"I knew he had something up his sleeve," Len Ward ranted. "I knew he was up to something the minute he quietly agreed to come back. D-mn."

"Oh, come on," his wife hushed. "You've been waiting eagerly for his return for the last nine years, just as much as anybody else."

"Have you been waiting eagerly?" he huffed moodily.

Celia gave him a look as she seated Adie for a late-night snack.

"She looked like a Walmart employee," Len mumbled. "She was wearing a man's polo shirt."

"They were on the road nine hours," Celia replied. "Cut them a break."

"A break's all she's getting," Victoria stated. The older woman seated herself, her face stern. "She was mistaken for one of the servants. John will make sure she's disposed of before the month is out."

Celia sputtered. "She's a human being, not a piece of rotten fruit!"

"Besides," Len pointed out, "getting rid of her means nothing to Grant. He's not going to marry Mae, or even consider it. He'll just run off." Len paused. "Not that I believe Mae would be too disappointed. But her parents will be."

"It's too late to stop them from coming." Victoria Hand shook her head. "John will have his hands full."

"She seems nice and she's got a beautiful smile," Celia cut in. "Let's wait on the judgments, here. What do you think, Phil?"

"I don't care what Grant does." He obviously did care very much what Grant did, his strained voice belying his words.

"And what do you think of your oldest brother, Ada?" Celia asked.

"He's very tall. And grouchy-looking. And she's not pretty."

"You do wonder what Grant saw in her," Ada's aunt muttered in agreement.

"Before we get over our heads," Celia disagreed, "She's still Grant's wife. And, let me remind you, she'll inherit all this with him. So if you're going to be jerk-offs, at least remember that."

Victoria Hand looked disapprovingly at her niece-in-law.

"And he seems to like her. He called her love."

"To piss off our father," Len retorted. "C'mon, Celie. You know how this family is about marrying for love."

"Does that apply to you, too?" she asked, pointedly, her voice slightly hurt. Her husband's face softened, and he looked a little ashamed. Celia scooted her little sister-in-law off her chair. "It's late," she said tiredly. "We should all be in bed."

* * *

Grant stepped up to the rooms set aside for his return - a redone apartment, neither his childhood room nor his parents' rooms. He opened the door to find his wife sitting on the windowseat, looking out the big bay window at the sky.

She was dressed in worn shorts and a tee-shirt, and he could see where both had been patched. But that didn't seem to bother her; she wasn't picking at them self-consciously. She seemed far too intrigued by what she saw out the window. The moonlight lit her face, bathing her features in a soft light. She looked surprisingly young and pretty.

He did not turn on the light but crossed the room towards her.

"The view is incredible," she said, her voice hushed, as if it would break the spell.

"Yes." He'd always appreciated the outdoors, seeing it as his freedom.

"You don't look like your father," she said, "but you are very similar in some respects." She paused as his jaw tightened. "I am sorry. I should not have mentioned that."

He did not like how easy he was to read. He turned his face cold, but her expression was still wide open, her eyes looking up at him, bright in the moonlight. Bright and fathomless, as if he could see deep into her if he looked hard enough. Silly woman, he thought. She held herself that open, she'd get hurt. He'd learned that a long time ago.

"If anybody asks," he instructed, "we dated only two months. You were a nanny in the home of an English friend of mine. I met you there, we fell in love, eloped immediately."

She blushed, lowering her eyes just briefly before looking back up at him with a steady gaze. "You should smile, then."

He raised an eyebrow at her quiet statement. It was not a challenge, nor was it stated as such - just a simple statement. But to him it was a challenge, and she had to know that. He hated how she was in his head.

"You claim you married me for love," she began, "but you look like a man who advertised for a poor nanny on craigslist and married her to disgust somebody - like a man who has cut his nose off to spite his face."

Grant narrowed his eyes. He was really regretting picking Jemma Fitzsimmons, now. He had not known on the day he hired her that she had such firm views of things. Still, she had made a key point. "In front of others," he conceded. "No need for it in our rooms."

"No," she agreed.

"And I don't post advertisements to craigslist," he grumbled. It was a silly, petty way to have the last word, but he couldn't help it.

She merely looked at him, her eyes bright, a soft smile upon her face.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review! A long chapter to tide y'all over for a bit.

* * *

Jemma woke, slightly disoriented. For a second she was in a panic, not quite realizing where she was, before it all clicked.

She'd lived in posh houses before, but never as a guest - always as the nanny. The sheets were the silkiest she'd ever slept on; she thought, with playful silliness, that that was the reason was why they kept slipping off at night.

She'd had the bedroom to herself; he'd slept in the sitting room. She had argued a bit, as much as could be argued with a man who glared as a form of communication. She pointed out that this was _his_ home (he didn't like the comment) and that she was far shorter than he, for one, and could fit onto a couch more comfortably. At the latter, he looked at her steadily, and there seemed to be amusement in his eyes. He led her to the sitting room and pointed to the couch. It was a long L-shaped couch, with a lounger on one end and seating for seven across its length. She had felt rather silly. She did wonder, though, why there was a couch that long in a suite given to man they hadn't known would be married until last night.

She quickly checked the clock by her bed - six am. It was a little later than the normal time she got up, but no matter. She was up now.

She had showered the night before, despite the late hour. She pulled on a tee-shirt and knee-length shorts and her flats and hurriedly tied her hair up before she headed out into the fresh air and new sunlight of the day. It was her first chance to see the place, and it was strikingly beautiful. Much of it was a carefully cultivated wildness, framed in the distance by the ocean. She could feel the breeze on her face.

It was lovely. And freeing, after that oppressive house. She was beginning to see why her husband had left. The house was cold and calculating - chilling.

She trotted along, looking at all the different flora and smiling at the different fauna that popped out to study the new stranger. She had always enjoyed teaching her charges about different plants and animals, and that was one thing she loved to study at each new place she went.

She was so absorbed in what she was doing - she knew of hardy kiwifruit but had never seen one of the trees in person or eaten one - that she jumped when he spoke. "It's native to northeastern Asia," he said, nodding at the tree she was examining. "My mother had this row planted."

He stepped forward to stand next to her, raking a hand through his hair. He dressed in loose black shorts and a gray athletic tee-shirt, which was dark with sweat, and black running shoes. He must have just finished and was returning to the house.

She had never seen him _not_ dressed in a button-down shirt and some at least business casual wear. He seemed very male, looking like this. Jemma wondered what she had gotten herself into.

For his part, Grant was not the least bit surprised to see her up so early. If she had been a live-in nanny, she would have had to be up with the children.

She looked adorably fresh and bright-eyed. He did not like it.

"Your mother must have been interested in horticulture," she mused, gently brushing a finger over one of the blossoms on the tree.

"She was. Len shares that interest in science. Most of what is on the property she had brought in."

She looked up at him, her gaze steady but silent. She studied him a moment. "You must look like your mother did," she said softly. "You and Ada." He said nothing. "She must have been quite beautiful."

He looked down at her for a moment, then turned heel and began to stride back to the house.

She caught up to him in two steps, even though his steps were much longer than hers. "When did she pass?"

"Nine years ago."

"Ada is nine," she said thoughtfully. "And you left nine years ago. She must have been very young. It must have been a very difficult time for you."

He had not cried a single tear at his mother's funeral. But he had wept, silently, as he held Ada, barely a month old - huge, shuddering, but silent sobs. For a moment he was transported back to Lockwood's small kitchen, sitting at the table as Lockwood stood stoically by the horrified and frightened new nanny. There were tears streaming down his face as he held his infant sister. They were the last tears he ever shed.

His last weakness.

Grant was roused to uncommon anger at his wife, though logically he knew she had done nothing more than ask questions - questions which, his rational mind pointed out, she'd need to know to make this marriage seem real. Still, as well as he could keep his resentment under control, he still snapped at her. "You can stop with your ill-informed conclusions," he said, his tone sharp. "You don't know me. You don't know these circumstances, nor do you need to. And my mother is not a topic for conversation, understand?"

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes bright and troubled. Her expression was hurt, but it was still open to him - open, honest - and her eyes searching. He had the very disturbing feeling that she understood far more than he wanted her to.

"I believe I do understand," she said softly, her tone not defensive or shuttered but just as gentle as it had been before he'd snapped at her.

They stared at each other for a long moment, his face hard and unyielding, hers open - open and troubled but lovely. She said nothing, and she had acquiesced to his request, but he had again that distinct feeling that he was losing this battle of wills.

The house was in sight. Remembering their conversation from the night before, he offered her his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

They walked back to the house together in an uncomfortable silence - or perhaps it was only uncomfortable for him. She was wide-eyed, taking in the natural plants around her. What had it said on her reference letter and résumé? Biochemistry at Churchill College, Cambridge? He wondered why she had dropped out.

His phone dinged, and he looked down at it. He then steered her onto a path towards the side door. When they arrived, a man stepped out of the car. It took a second before his wife realized who it was. He was dressed for quiet exit, not as Grant's employee: jeans, a white V-neck tee-shirt, and a zippered running jacket with a hood pulled over his distinctive reddish-orange hair. He also had on a flat cap.

"Mr. Lockwood!" Her voice was warm and welcoming, if a little puzzled. Grant supposed that Mark was one of the few who had been kind to her since this whole thing started, so of course she would be happy to see a friendly face. "Did you sleep well?"

The older man did smile at her from under his flat cap. "Yes, thank you, ma'am." He then handed Grant a packet. "What you asked for."

"Thank you, Lockwood." He looked steadily at the older man. "You'll be all right?"

"No problem. Steve should be down here in no less than two hours, and he'll be sure to let you know when he arrives."

Grant reached out a hand and shook the other man's. "Thank you."

"No problem." He turned to Jemma, and surprisingly, shook her hand as well. "Ma'am."

"Are you leaving?" Jemma asked, surprised.

"Yes, ma'am. Steve will be here to take you anywhere you need to go."

Jemma frowned, looking up at her husband in surprise and concern as Lockwood got back into the car and pulled out. "Has he done something to displease you?"

"Not me," Grant replied shortly.

She thought for a moment, then whispered sharply, "Did you hire him also to anger your father?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Grant replied brusquely, "but Mark once displeased my father immensely for a service he did for me. He is not welcome here because of it. His leaving is for his own benefit."

He turned and strode into the house, and she followed. As they headed upstairs, he said, "You'll need to change for breakfast," he replied, and she nodded.

When he emerged from his shower, fashionably late - his father hated tardiness - she was sitting quietly on the window seat, reading a stapled packet. She wore the same black flats with the frayed hole and her makeshift patch; she wore the same khaki pants as she'd traveled in yesterday, and the same black short-sleeve shirt she'd worn to the interview. Now that he could see it in the light and was actually paying attention, one look at the buttons told him it was a man's shirt, but she had cleverly fixed the sleeves and even sewn it to make it fitted for herself. Everything was faded from repeated washing. Her hair was pulled into a neat little bun, and she had a pencil tucked behind her ear, a highlighter in her hand. She looked like - well, like a nanny.

But a lovely one. He did not like that.

He opened the package and turned on the smartphone. He then looked over the tablet and keyboard. He then held them both out to her. "These are yours."

She blinked in surprise. "Thank you, but I don't need these."

"Our agreement was that you would be provided for. You will need a phone. And this is your computer."

"But I - "

"I need you to have them," he replied sharply.

She apparently decided that this was not worth fighting over. "Thank you for your generosity," she said, her voice soft, but he could sense the genuine gratitude in it.

He did not acknowledge her thanks. "We should go down to breakfast."

"We're late," she pointed out, though her tone was not accusatory. He grinned. "You meant for us to be late."

He merely held out his arm, gesturing at the door, still smiling.

~| tw |~

Breakfast was a disaster by Jemma's standards. When they arrived, her father-in-law's face was thunderous, but her husband blew in breezily. It was a small buffet, and it seemed that, despite the lovely food placed before them, nobody was enjoying it. There was complete silence except for the chink of silverware against the plates. No children to liven the place up, either. She wondered where Ada was.

Her husband gave her a smile - right, loving smiles in front of the others - and pulled out her chair for her.

She prayed quietly for strength, then began: "I was out for a walk this morning - and the grounds are so beautiful. Grant was showing me the hardy kiwifruit plants."

There was stunned silence. She could see Phillip's eyes flicker to the Ward patriarch. Jemma doubted the effect would have been much different if she'd suddenly fallen to the floor and rolled around the carpet and barked like a dog. She was horribly tempted to test out her theory - just for scientific purposes, of course.

"When do they bloom here?" she asked brightly.

Silence. Victoria Hand looked disapprovingly down at her.

She had never had to work this hard for her daily bread, Jemma thought. Though, the money she would make was more than daily bread, wasn't it.

Grant sat back, both baffled and admiring. He had not expected his wife to attempt conversation; she had faded so well into his walls at the interview. Still, now that he thought about it, it was not surprising - she _had_ attempted to chat with him on the drive down to New York. And now, now she was trying to liven up the dining atmosphere with conversation, a task which should have fallen to his father as host and his aunt as hostess. It was not the most alluring set of topics she had chosen, but then he doubted she had ever been schooled in the art of conversation.

He thought about aiding her and scrolled mentally through different responses that would both answer her question and continue the conversation. He came up with nothing. He knew he'd never been good at small talk, but it was different when it was one's own wife struggling and one was unable to help her.

"There are so many of them," she continued. "They are so much rarer than the commercial kiwis found in the stores, and your plants are in such good condition."

"Len and his people take care of them," Phil finally spoke, breaking the silence. Jemma could have run over and hugged the younger man for his intervention. "And the kitchen cans and freezes the fruit for the winter. Grant and Clark eat so many." He paused, then tensed as he realized his mistake. "Grant and Clark are Len and Celia's two boys." He did not look at his eldest brother.

Jemma latched onto the information. Her husband might be tense around his middle brother and his sister-in-law, but they were still family, and those boys were still his nephews. "And how old are they?"

"Grant is the older; he's just turned five. Len is three. And they have - " he stopped suddenly, as if he'd said more than he already should have. " - a daughter, seven months, named Catherine," he said in a rush.

Jemma did not miss Grant, stiffening in the seat next to her. So the name meant something to him. His mother, perhaps.

"It must be lovely for Ada to have playmates," Jemma said warmly, thinking of her own sister that age. Mary could be quite bossy with her two younger brothers and was only kept from being more so by the fact that she had three older siblings - and that she adored her older sisters, Jemma and Penny, who would not tolerate arrogance. "Are there photos of them?"

"There is a family gallery," Grant explained. "Some photos on the wall, but also albums."

Jemma smiled and opened her mouth to comment when John Garrett Ward finally spoke. "If your morning is free, hon, I'll take you to see them myself after breakfast."

There was complete silence. Nobody moved. Grant's hand stilled over his knife, and Phil raised an eyebrow in surprise. One couldn't say what was more shocking: the offer itself or the use of the endearment.

"Thank you, Dad," she replied easily, as if it were quite normal to get such a request.

~| tw |~

After breakfast, the Ward patriarch held out his arm, bowing slightly with a charming smile on his face. She looked up at her husband briefly, his own face still and impassive, and then slipped her hand into the crook of the proferred elbow and let her father-in-law guide her out.

He led her to the library - a beautiful room, so full of books she gasped in delight. It had floor to ceiling books, and a ladder that rolled between them. There was even a small mezzanine with a spiral staircase going up to it. The books there were behind glass paneling - older books which were most likely first editions or something similar. Around the walls were paintings and canvas-printed photos.

Her small start of surprise did not go unnoticed. "We keep everything in here, including some of the research books Len's staff need for their experiments," John replied. "You'll most likely find something on those hardy kiwifruit as well."

"It's a lovely room," she breathed, her admiration real. "One would want to sit here and read for hours."

"It was careful planning," he replied, and she took note of the sincere delight and pride in his voice. So John Ward wasn't all false charm; there were things he genuinely felt for.

He turned her towards the paintings. "Some of these are older," he began, indicating some family portraits. "The Ward family is an old one in the area."

"Related to the Boston Wards?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, and she thought she noted some surprise in his tone, as well as a little delight. "Family of Samuel Ward." He indicated some of the older paintings. "The very old ones have been carefully preserved elsewhere. Family ones are here."

They soon moved into the newer ones; some where smaller canvas photos, and some where still large paintings. There was one with a little boy with a broken arm. "My grandfather, as a child. He'd wandered away from home, got hurt; fortunately, the family dog was with him and kept him from getting hypothermia. That was taken just two weeks after."

She couldn't help a small smile at the picture. The little boy was adorable, quite frankly. And the cheekbones - they reminded her of Grant's. So he had inherited some physical characteristics from the Ward side of the family. Without thinking before she spoke, she mused out loud, "So you owe your life to that little yellow Labrador."

John Ward raised an eyebrow at that. "I suppose so," he said, not quite as amused by the thought as she was. "And you owe your husband to that same little yellow Labrador."

She blushed.

They stopped in front of two more portraits. The nearer one was, quite obviously, her husband at a younger age - before Adie was born. Phil was there, in short pants and a little shirt, as were Grant and Leonard, both teenagers. Their mother sat in the center, smiling, but her eyes were sad and her back stiff. She was dark, like Grant - and if Victoria Hand was anything to show, a stately beauty, who commanded attention by her mere presence. Their father was smiling also - all of them were. But only Len seemed to radiate actual delight, in contrast to everybody else.

"Mrs. Ward was beautiful," she said, ever so quietly. And sad - so sad. She looked so much older than in her wedding portrait, above it - but just as sad.

"They said she was the loveliest on this coast," John Ward replied. He said no more, only stoically looking up at the painting. He seemed to be calm, but Jemma suspected he felt more than he was letting on.

Was that how John Ward had chosen his bride? Beauty? Or was there something else? And why was Grant so squirrelly about his mother?

Her father-in-law led her slowly down the row, his eyes settling on a wedding portrait. "I suppose my son has no wedding portraits," he said in a disapproving tone. She blushed, though no doubt her father-in-law mistook the reason for it. Of course her husband would not have taken wedding photos; why would one put up a portrait of a temporary wife, of a business partner, in a family room? But no doubt her father-in-law thought something else of her flushed cheeks.

"We married hastily," she conceded. That was so very, very true.

"'Married in haste, repent at leisure,'" he quoted to her. "Regrets are for a lifetime. Don't believe that because he can't keep his hands off you now that he actually loves you. In a marriage to Grant Ward, there is only him and his needs - not yours."

"I believe," she replied, as firmly but as gently as she could, "that is for Grant and me to work out."

"Then you better, before you realize your fairy tale is over," her father-in-law said sharply. "He married you to flaunt you at me, to show me I have no power over him. You are merely the pawn in this game, and plenty of regret will go around afterwards."

It was true, and she was well aware of this going into this trip, but it was still not easy to hear. Still, Jemma schooled her features to be calm, focusing instead on what was clearly the disappointment and anger of her father-in-law. "Do you regret my marriage to Grant?" she asked, gently.

"If I do," he replied, smiling widely, his cold charm back in place, "he'll never know it. He's brought home an English rose as his new wife, and I should get to know her. I believe I'll come to like her quite a great deal." He beamed a friendly smile at her and patted her hand where it was in the crook of his arm.

Now she felt dizzy with hurt. So this was how she was going to earn her family's freedom from debt - by being a pawn between two men in the family, a toy to be played with and pushed back and forth in a game of lies. She would have preferred yelling and door-slamming, if it were at least truthful. At least, she had to concede, their form of a game was not physically or sexually abusive towards her; that would have been much worse. No, their game was for each to pretend an affection for her that they, neither of them, felt. It was an odd game. And perhaps she deserved some of it - after all, she'd made mockery of marriage - marriage! - for money.

She could do it, Jemma told herself. For Leo and for Penny and for the children. She could make it through the two weeks. And she would not condescend to their level, she promised herself. They saw her as a pawn, but she knew who she was, and Jemma Fitzsimmons would not cow to their petty games.

"Father," she said, with her usual warmth and kindness, "you've been on your feet awhile. I appreciate how much time you've spent explaining your family - Grant's - to me. But please, sit a little. Let me bring you something to drink."

"You may walk me to my office. I have to meet with your husband and your new brother-in-law there."

She squeezed his arm. "Please do rest, Dad," she said quietly, and was rewarded with something that wasn't a smile - seemed far more like puzzlement - but seemed more genuine than anything she'd seen from him yet.

* * *

Jemma wandered back upstairs to do her reading when she heard a piano being plunked away. She headed down the long hallway towards the other end of the house and, through the open doorway, saw Ada sitting at the bench, her feet almost touching the floor, playing. She looked quite adorable, almost her real age, sitting there as the sunlight streamed in.

The child suddenly noticed her at the doorway and stiffened.

"No, please don't stop. You look quite lovely sitting there, playing," Jemma said gently.

The girl only glared for a moment, then contradicted her haughtily, "It is _not_ lovely." Had Jemma not heard the frustration in her voice, she might have thought the child arrogant.

"Is it a new piece?" Jemma asked, with the same patience.

Ada looked up at her, her face still with that haughty expression. She was unable to maintain it, though, and after a moment, her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, sweetheart," Jemma said, her heart softening instantly. She quickly strode over to kneel by her, rubbing her back. "It's all right."

"I _hate_ piano." Ada looked at the music in frustration, sniffling in anger and frustration. "I _hate_ it. Daddy said I have to learn."

"Oh," Jemma soothed. She gently scooted the girl over on the piano bench and hugged her. "It will be all right. I hated it, too."

That got a response. The girl instantly looked up at her, forgetting her own frustrations in light of this delicious new information. "You play the piano?"

"I took lessons from the time I was five until I finished secondary school," she replied. "Until I was seventeen."

Ada took a moment to calculate just how long that was, then crumpled her face into a big moue. Jemma just laughed. "I hated it for a long time, but now I am glad I learned to play." The little girl looked doubtful about that, and Jemma just chuckled. "What is giving you so much trouble?"

"Everything." Ada's tone was one of deep frustration.

"Well, let's see." Jemma peered over the music, then asked, "Have you heard the piece before?"

"No. My teacher says she doesn't want to pre - prepjuice me about how to play it."

Jemma thought that was a complete crock, but she said nothing about the teacher. "Prejudice you?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's a thought," she said carefully. "How about this - I'll play it for you to hear, so you know how the notes go together. But once you know how to play it, I want you to look at the fortes and the pianissimos and to ponder the music and play it with your own feeling - don't copy mine." Ada looked up at her, wary but hopeful. "Do we have an agreement, then?"

Ada nodded eagerly, and Jemma played the piece through. It was an adorable children's piece, meant to sound fun and light when it was played properly. When she was done, Ada leaned against her, swinging her legs. "Can you play another?"

"Sweetheart, isn't this your practice time?"

"I promise I'll practice fifteen more minutes," Ada said.

"How long are you supposed to practice?"

"Half an hour." Ada paused. "Does not count bathroom time."

Jemma laughed out loud at that. She was well acquainted with it. Her trips to the bathroom during her piano practice times were always legendarily prolonged affairs - it was amazing what myriad of gastrointestinal problems would hit whenever she had to practice piano. Leo had attempted to copy her until their mother pointed out to him that, since he played the violin, she could still make him practice in the bathroom.

"And how long have you practiced?"

"Fifteen minutes." Ada pointed at the clock.

"Honestly?"

"Honest," Ada nodded earnestly, then offered, "I'll even play _twenty_ minutes more."

Jemma laughed, amused by the nine-year-old's little business deal. "All right, then." The woman looked at her, smiling. "What do you want me to play?"

"Anything." Ada leaned against her. "Mommy's old music books are there." She pointed.

Jemma got up, Ada following her. She selected a piece, and played it. Ada looked at the instrument, enchanted, as though she didn't know it could sound like that. "Another, please?"

"How about this: you practice your twenty minutes, and then I'll play some more for you."

Ada nodded, clambering up to the bench again. She turned to the woman, the delight disappearing from her face. She looked at Jemma hesitantly and then asked in a timid, uncertain voice, "Will you stay?"

Jemma smiled, squeezing the little girl's hand. "Of course," she said gently. The little girl's face cleared; she beamed happily and turned back to her music. The woman felt her heart go out to the child; she'd never seen children who actually wanted adults waiting by while they practiced their instruments. (She herself never wanted her mother around while she practiced because she used to read a book while her hands plunked away mindlessly at exercises. Had her mum seen that, she would have been in big trouble!) Was Ada so starved of adult affection that she wanted even a new acquaintance to stay? And to ask in such a small, apologetic voice? Good night, what was going on in this house?

The little girl looked over at her, and Jemma smiled warmly at her.

* * *

Grant climbed the stairs towards the second floor. He, Len, and their father had been in a three-hour meeting. It had felt like much longer because of the tension.

His father had not looked well. And given what the meeting was about - basically acquainting Grant with all the family holdings and properties and trusts and endless paperwork - John Garrett Ward knew it, too; he knew he wouldn't last long and wanted his heir to know exactly what to do with all of it.

It was a good thing Len was there, Grant thought uncharitably. He should know all this to put it on hold for his own sons - since Grant sure as h-ll wasn't going to come back to run any of this when his father passed.

Still, though, as much as Grant wanted to dump everything on Len, he knew he most likely would not. He could feel his family closing in on him again. He had never been able to leave them for good, and now that he was back, the ties binding him were more obvious than ever.

He heard laughter coming from the other end, and then piano music. He walked down the hall quietly, and then he heard his wife and his sister's voices. He stopped outside the doorway, hidden from them but from where he could hear them and see them in the large mirror inside the room.

"I like that song," Ada was saying. "It sounds like a little baby river."

"A creek," Jemma prompted.

"A creek," Ada agreed. "Like the one by Grant and Clark's house."

"Do you play with Grant and Clark a lot?"

Ada nodded. "But they're smaller."

"That's what your brother Phillip said."

Ada nodded. "Clark is named after Celie's daddy, Agent Coulson. And his middle name is Garrett, after my daddy."

"I see."

"Uncle Clark is funny," Ada nodded. "I like him."

"Have you met him before?"

"Sometimes, when he and his wife visit and I go to play with Grant and Clark."

"And is Grant named after your eldest brother Grant?"

Ada nodded. She paused for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not to say it, and then whispered something to Jemma that the older Grant didn't hear.

"Who's scary? Grant?" Jemma asked, and in the silence, Ada must have nodded, because Jemma then chuckled and said gently, "Oh, sweetheart, he does care for his family."

"Still scary," Ada mumbled.

"Is it because he's very tall?" Jemma's voice was filled with mirth, and she climbed up onto the piano bench and put her hands on her hips and looked all the way down at Ada. "I'm Mr. Grant Ward," she said in a low voice with an American accent, narrowing her eyes. "And I own half of Boston. And I never smile."

Ada giggled. Jemma climbed down from her perch to sit back on the bench. "And he might look scary, but that's only because he's tall. And he doesn't like to talk. But people who are tall and don't like to talk don't need to be scary. He does love you very, very much, so you needn't be frightened at all."

Ada sounded doubtful, but still acquiesced. "OK."

"Are you hungry? Do you want to see what's for lunch?"

"OK." She paused. "Play one more?" she pleaded, leaning against the older woman.

Jemma flipped through a couple of the pages and seemed to see one she knew. "Have you heard this one?" she asked. Ada shook her head.

She set the music on the stand and played a couple measures from different lines, quietly explaining the low, lumbering piano tones as the elephants' steps, the high staccato ones as birds. Ada listened with interest. Then Jemma played the whole thing through: as the notes tinked and danced and flowed, Grant was transported back to his childhood, leaning against the piano as his mother played. Poulenc, he remembered. Something about a little elephant.

When she finished the short piece, Ada heaved a huge sigh of contentment, the breath whooshing out of her small nine-year-old body.

"Did you like that?" Jemma's voice was filled with gentle warmth.

Ada nodded with a smile.

Grant rapped on the door at that moment, startling them both. As he looked at them, he couldn't stop the unconscious smile touching his lips. "Lunch."

* * *

Jemma very quickly found an ally in what she now thought of as Bleak House (albeit bleak in a different way from its namesake). Celia Ward was lively and sarcastically witty, and her dark eyes always danced with mischief. Having three children had not dimmed that in the slightest. As a younger woman, she must have gotten into some real bad-girl shenanigans; Jemma was not quite sure that she herself would have been able to resist Celia's rule-breaking plans. They could not have been more different, the two of them, but they got on like a house on fire.

Celia's husband, Leonard, was a different sort, and reminded Jemma of her own brother Leo. Len was quieter than his wife, more withdrawn. Unlike Grant, who perpetually wore a black, "stay away from me" expression, Len just seemed introverted - but not unkind. Even his frowns were less frightening than his brother's, and his sharp, intelligent blue eyes were wary but friendly. He also seemed to share a sense of humor with his wife, ever so often spouting a hilariously witty comment about what was going on. Jemma found she shared a common interest in science with her new brother-in-law: Leonard was an engineer, and close to a genius one at that. Grant had mentioned that his brother hated being in the outside world, much preferring to be in his lab.

Separately, Len and Celia were each interesting; together, Jemma found an entirely new dynamic. They worked together, and it was not hard to see why: Celia was a computer scientist - "a hacker, once, but shh!" she had stage-whispered to Jemma - who designed the agricultural models and simulations that Len used. He ran the actual farm-technology design area; she ran the computer model simulations division. Each design made in Len's department was taken to Celia's, where she and her team drew up a simulation model and sent the results back for tweaking before they actually built the thing. When Celia and Len talked together, it was a constant back-and-forth flow of ideas, like watching tennis between well-matched players.

Celia was by far the more demonstrative in her affections, at one point throwing her arms around her husband's neck and giving him a big kiss on the top of his head as she laughed. He never seemed irritated, though a little caught off guard. He tended to talk to her quietly, often murmuring something to her privately that would cause her dark eyes to light up, with a rare, vulnerable affection in them; when that happened, his own blue ones would soften when they looked at her. Even in the oppressive atmosphere of the Ward home, Len and Celia seemed to have had quite a successful marriage.

Lunchtime was a much more easygoing affair with the pair (especially Celia) there, even if the imperious Aunt Victoria kept glaring. Afterwards, the younger children had a brief nap in one of the upstairs rooms, leaving the two women to chat for awhile (Celia was a wealth of information) before they all headed to the outdoor pool.

"I hope I don't offend you, but I didn't believe you brought a swimsuit," Celia replied, tugging at her capacious beach bag. There was nothing condescending in the tone, just a simple statement of fact. "So I brought some of mine. Don't ask me why I have more than one - as I keep telling Len, I can only wear one at a time, and it's not like wearing a wet suit back into the _water_ is any difficulty."

She rummaged through the bag, then yanked out something. "I believe this would make Grant's eyes fall out of his head!"

She held up a neon pink and pastel orange bikini that seemed to have less cloth in it than the swim trunks the littlest boy wore. Jemma couldn't hold back a squeak of horror. At that, Celia nearly fell over laughing. "Your face," she gasped. "I'm teasing. Gave you a heart attack, didn't I?"

She laughed, putting it away. "Kidding. I believe I wore that when I was eight. Obviously it covers a lot more then. But dang, that was worth the look on your face." She rummaged through again, then stopped. "Are you a swimmer?"

Jemma nodded.

She then pulled out a royal blue tankini top with a square neckline and thick shoulder straps, with a pair of matching boy shorts. "OK?"

Jemma nodded. "It's lovely. But I don't want to take your things."

"Oh. That's all right. Like I said, I've got more than one. And I like the thick straps - when I used to swim, those thin straps kept sliding off or irritating kids on the swim team would snap them on my skin. This would be good for lap swimming, too, as long as you don't go all Janet Evans on me."

Jemma laughed. "Little chance of that. When may I return it?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. You can - " at Jemma's look, Celia laughed. "Come down and see the house tomorrow afternoon. Stay for dinner. I know Victoria and John won't be around - they're meeting with the lawyers tomorrow, and taking Ada into the city - something about school. You can return it then, if you like."

It was like a different house when Celia was around. The outdoor pool rang with laughter. Grant had his mother's grin and her dark hair and dark eyes. Clark was possessed of his father's lighter, curlier hair and a sweet disposition. The last was Kitty - Catherine. She was just seventh months old, roly-poly and adorable. She had her father's face but her mother's eyes - from the color right down to the mischievous twinkle.

Jemma laughed as she watched Celia with the three older children, chasing her boys and Ada around the water like a shark as they squealed. She herself gently splashed the baby and pulled the hat more securely over her head. Kitty gurgled and watched the riot going on in the pool.

~| tw |~

The sound of laughter outside was only irritating Grant Ward. It wasn't hard to hear Celia's booming but melodic laughter over the more childlike ones, and it served more to anger him than anything else. She was one of the reasons he had not returned home in that long.

His father was still talking, now finishing up the paperwork surrounding the charities - namely, the Lustgarten Foundation for pancreatic cancer, the disease which had killed his mother so quickly nine years ago. Grant was only listening with half an ear.

An hour later, John Ward stood up. "I believe we're done for today. Len, why don't we do the paperwork for this tomorrow, and you can give Grant a personal tour then, too, before the company party?"

Grant recognized it for what this was: a cleverly disguised way for his father to manipulate the circumstances. He must have been exhausted to stop work now. He also was determined his firstborn would know the family holdings - hence, the tour. He wanted Grant to take over the financial aspects of the company when he died, and so he was maneuvering his two eldest sons into working together.

"That would be fine," Len replied. Always the acquiescent, Grant thought uncharitably.

"A tour?" Grant could barely keep his voice steady. His father, overreaching his bounds again. The son had been clear - so clear - as to the fact that he would not be taking over for his father. Yet he kept ignoring it. "I don't believe that will be necessary," he said in a tone frigid enough to freeze fire. "I'm sure Len handles the operation fine. I see little reason for me to intervene."

It was less a vote of confidence in his brother than a strike against them both.

Len looked trapped - and irritated, but trapped. John Garrett Ward simply looked at his son, a challenge in his eyes; Grant met it full on. He had already weighed out the pros and cons of what he was about to say.

"I'm sure you already know how the business operates," Grant replied, his words easy but his tone sharp. "Len can catch me up while you attend to other matters." It gave his father an out: he could go rest if need be, without being embarrassed. Grant would still learn the financial holdings, but out from the control of his more domineering father. Len he could handle, and quite easily. Grant had no intention of going on this blasted tour or paying any attention to the minor workings of his father's business interests.

The only downside to his proposed plan: Grant would be in here with his brother, alone, for a good other two hours. It was bound to be a disaster.

John Ward acquiesced, leaving the two brothers alone in the room.

The clock could be heard ticking.

"Might as well get started," Len began uncomfortably.

"I meant what I said. I'm sure you're handling it just fine," Grant replied stonily. "This is unnecessary."

"But Dad wants you to - "

"And we know you always do what Dad wants for me, don't we," Grant retorted with a sneer, getting up. "Especially when it benefits you."

Len closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. There was hurt on his face. "It's been nine years," he said, dully. "I'd hoped that nine years meant it was bygone, but it's not, is it?"

"Oh, you mean the part where you married the woman I loved the minute I was gone? Yeah, let's just let that be bygone," Grant retorted.

"Minute you were - ! You were talking about eloping. You had to finish college. Celia had to finish college. And you know Dad would never have forgiven you for picking her."

"And so you saved me," Grant replied sarcastically. "Your brotherly love spared me Dad's anger. You married her yourself. Taking a hit for the team, huh?"

"She was not yours!" Len replied, his voice rising. He took a deep breath, then consciously calmed his voice. "Look, I get it. At the time, you were so blind because you were so worried about Mom's - "

"Leave our mother out of this." This tone was curt.

"Mom was at the center of everything!" Len said sharply.

"Leave her out of it," Grant repeated, his tone frigid.

Len sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Look, Grant," he said, his voice pleading. "I have to admit I was nervous about you coming back, but it had to happen at some point. Dad's not going to last. Please, can't be put the past behind us? You know how much I value your opinion."

"Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you took Dad's side to separate me from Celia merely so you could marry her."

"D-mm-t!" Len exploded. "Celie's not some object, Grant! She's not some toy we're fighting over! She consented, did you ever consider that? She consented to dating me, to my proposal. I never held a pistol to her head. She married me. Did it ever occur to you that she loved me?

"I never thought it a possibility. You were always better than me. You were athletic and intelligent, more well-rounded than your science-nerd brother. You were always better-looking. Taller. Better business sense. Everybody liked you first and expected everything would fall to you first, and girls always loved you," Len snapped. "I was fine with that. I never resented you, because you were my older brother and my hero, and I loved being known as your brother, even if it was a shadow I always lived under. But it never occurred to you, did it, that perhaps, just perhaps, I outdid you on this. Celia loved _me_, and still does."

Grant stood very still, his face stone, his temper barely reined in. "It's all a moot point now," he said flatly. "You and Celia have been married seven years and have three children. I married the woman I chose. So it all doesn't matter any more, does it?"

Except for broken trust. Except for an estrangement in the relationship Grant had valued most: the one with the brother closest to him in age.

They stood, immovable. In the silence, Grant could hear a baby voice outside the window, a floor below - "May I find Daddy now? ... But Mommy, you said that I could find him when the big hand was at the six, and it's at the ten now. ... Ohhhh," the last whimpered in disappointment.

"Your son," Grant couldn't say it without feeling bitterness, "wants you."

Len sighed, then quietly cleaned up the papers and left the library. Grant watched from the window of the library's mezzanine as he reappeared downstairs, heading out to the pool. He stood in the library window, watching as two boys scurried across the concrete to their father, the youngest still sporting inflatable arm rings.

The older, especially - he looked like what Grant thought his own son would have looked like had he married Celia.

The woman in question was wearing a halter-top, bright red-and-pink swirled bathing suit, daring cuts in the sides. It was not hard to pick her out. There was some quiet conversation between Celia and Len, and then she ran a tired hand through her hair. They began to gather up their things, the woman giving Ada a big hug.

His own brother had stolen his life from him. Grant was not about to forgive that.

He started to turn from the window when he saw a figure off to the side, looking straight up at him from the poolside. In the water, Jemma's blue suit blended with the pool colors, but against the concrete, it was bright. When he looked down at her, she did not break her gaze back up at him. His wife did not look pleased.

Soon Len and Celia and their children left. Jemma turned, reaching a hand out to Ada with a big smile. The little girl beamed and took her hand, both of them jumping into the pool. She looked up again at the library window, briefly, before turning away.

He did not like how his wife seemed to see straight into him - even from yards away.

* * *

After another half-hour, Ada opted to go back inside rather than take another round of sunscreen. Jemma wrapped the little girl in a big towel, spinning her around and around as the child inside giggled, before wrapping herself in another and heading upstairs. She and Ada picked out her clothes and clean underthings, and then Ada went off to take her shower, chattering away. When she emerged, she dried herself off and begged Jemma to braid her hair. Afterwards, the woman settled her with a book before heading down the hallway herself to her own room.

She was aware that her husband had had a big fight with the family, and she suspected it was more than with just his father. His greeting of Len and Celia the night before had been fraught with tension on both sides, unlike with Phil, who seemed to resent Grant but not vice versa, and with Ada, who was a stranger.

Grant said he had not seen his family in nine years; Celia and Len had married seven and a half years ago. Had he not even come to his own brother's wedding? And all of them were very close in age. Had her husband loved Celia also?

~| tw |~

Grant had gone to his room after Len had left, flicking on the TV and settling in to check his own business matters on his laptop. It had given him time to calm down.

It was obvious Len loved his children, given how excited they were to see him and his clear affection in greeting them. The second Ward son had not followed in their father's footsteps - but then he had always been able to withstand the bleakness of their home, ducking his head down but still radiating a warmth towards everybody, more likely to hold on to a belief in somebody's goodness than not. He had been superior to Grant in that, too.

Did his brother really feel so inferior? Had the expectations of everybody else worn on him so much?

Had Celia really chosen Len first, and did not just marry him because she was not allowed to have the older brother? Did she actually love Len more - a rather humbling possibility Grant had not even considered.

The door to their rooms opened, and he inadvertently turned, though he well knew who was coming in. His wife was still dressed in that royal blue swimsuit and a pair of shorts, but it appeared to be dry by now. She looked at him steadily - and the condemnation he expected to see there was not there. "I suppose your quarrel with Len has not been settled," she said quietly but firmly. Her tone was clear: they were going to talk about this, _now_.

He pursed his lips. "Have you always been a nagger?"

That did not make her back down. "Yes, I have," she said, with as easy a response as if she had been agreeing to buy an ice cream cone. "What did you quarrel about?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, his anger obvious. This was not a topic for discussion.

"It was Celia, no?" she pushed.

He couldn't believe she was asking. She was his wife - and she was asking if he loved another woman. True, she wasn't his wife in a the normal sense, and wouldn't be so in less than ten days, but she was now.

Grant glared at her. They were not going to discuss this.

His wife looked straight back at him, her gaze unwavering.

A few minutes later, Grant found himself talking. Actually talking. "When I was young and stupid - when I believed in love and loyalty and happily-ever-afters, I set my sights on Celia," he replied shortly. "Her father had gone to college with mine - different social classes, drastically - and became one of New York's finest. Like him, his wife was also a cop with the New York police department. Celia they adopted when she was fifteen - she had been living in an old van near one of the delis, working as a hacker. Len and I met her because of our fathers. I fell in love."

He paused to see if Jemma would react to the confirmation of her suspicions. She did not, just steadily looking back at him with that same calm she always exuded, the same calm she showed at the interview. She most likely would maintain that same calm in the face of death, Grant thought.

He continued. "I confided in my best friend at the time - my brother. He was sympathetic - yet pointed out that my father would cut me off financially. Advised me to wait until I graduated college, when I could earn enough to sustain myself and her. My mother told me to be bold - to marry for love quickly, before I lost her. But Mom was ill, and I didn't want to cause more problems at home. Then she died suddenly - and I left home. Within a year Len and Celia were engaged, and married after Celia graduated."

"You did not attend their wedding," she said quietly.

"Why should I? My brother was a major reason my family and I are estranged."

There was a long silence, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. "He seems to me somebody who dislikes familial discord. He was afraid to tell you he loved her, too, and so he said nothing, even if it meant losing her to you. People do so all the time, perhaps more often with those they love than with those they do not. He seemed to value his relationship with you; it seems to me he has tortured himself with your separation for all these years."

"He didn't need to," Grant snorted. "It was a fortunate escape. I grew up. I learned to trust only myself. I learned what my father had always tried to teach me: not to be attached to others, not to be weak. I learned how self-deluded those in love are."

"Some are, yes," she agreed. "But I find they are not often really in love with somebody, but rather with themselves - and their perceptions of what love should be. Real love always rejoices with the truth."

He looked at her, bleakly. "And so where do we find it?" he asked in a challenging tone. "So, if what you have said is the truth, where is love in it?"

She looked steadily back at him, unperturbed. Nor did she rise to his challenge - or cower underneath it. She stepped past the question. "Why did Celie marry Len," she asked, "if she loved you? You are sure she loved you?"

"I thought so." He let his mind wander over those buried memories. "She was all smiles, laughter, beauty. Warm touches. Teasing." He frowned. Now that he thought of it, Celia was that way with everybody, not just with him. It was just her personality. Had he truly mistaken for love what for her was simple friendliness?

"She seems a naturally affectionate person," Jemma said, unknowingly confirming exactly what he had just been thinking. "Did she never tell you she loved you?"

"You've seen my family. None of us speak openly of anything - perhaps why Celia was such a breath of fresh air to me." And to Len, it seemed. "And whatever my anger was towards Len, he was not wrong that I needed to have work to support her, and that I should wait until graduation. I assumed she loved me and would wait for me."

"But she did not wait," she said. Her own brother had a girlfriend in England. Anne had waited - still was waiting - for Leo to come home. Anne was smart and beautiful and kind and sprightly and energetic - she could have any man she wanted, and she was still waiting for Leo to fulfill his duties to his family, to pay off their family debt, to come home. Jemma had not been joking when she said she thought Anne would wait a lifetime for Leo. And it was for this reason Jemma was doing what she was doing - for her own family, but also for Leo and Anne's happiness.

"It was a good marriage for Celia," Grant replied cynically. "She was an orphan with no name and no home. In less than ten years she had parents and was married into the New York Wards."

"If I loved you," Jemma said quietly, "I would wait. I would be single for life if need be. I could not marry another without love."

"You are married to me," he replied tonelessly. "But you would be wise never to love me."

She was very, very quiet. She could understand why he left, why he now trusted nobody but himself. She could understand it - but she could not condone it. He was more the broken, hardened person for it than not.

* * *

Grant was restless. His wife had, in a short conversation, managed to unsettle him. He had been a veritable thundercloud at dinner, and he had made no effort to support his wife through the meal. His father took that chance to dig in the knife deeper, laughing and chatting away in his coolly detached manner and treating his new daughter-in-law like she was some duchess from across the pond.

Jemma remained, however, as she was. She was warm and welcoming to everybody there - to his father, despite his faked terms of endearment; to Ada, who seemed very quiet but insisted on sitting next to Jemma and looked up at her every so often with adoring eyes - he noted that Ada wore the same tightly done French braid as Jemma did; to Phil, who seemed alternately baffled by her and then amused by her enthusiasm for explaining to Ada the chemistry of a baked Alaska.

Even his aunt had thawed. Aunt Victoria had always been stiff and unyielding, but she deigned to converse with Jemma, asking about her family and her childhood. His wife had hesitated slightly, then said softly that she was an only child, and her parents had passed.

It had struck him harder than he thought. She had nobody.

He had suspected that her parents were not in the picture for whatever reason. She was working on her own, stopping partway through a degree she clearly wanted to work for four years with the intention of going back? It all screamed of somebody who was quite without support. But when had her parents passed? And what had happened, that she had nothing? Had they left her no money? Had she no relatives, no family friends? Did they at least love her when they were alive?

Was there a man she loved and was forced to leave behind in England?

That evening, as they sat in the large family room, the television on mute - there was nothing worthwhile on - his aunt had requested that Ada play a piano piece she had been working on. The child's deer-in-the-headlights look did not put off the older woman, who pointed out that she would be performing soon and should get used to it.

Ada had calmed down when Jemma sat beside her on the bench, and the child then played a familiar piece rather prettily. Even his aunt had been satisfied, and his father had looked genuinely surprised. Ada, however, had immediately looked to Jemma for approval, who had smiled and whispered in her ear. Then, there had been some goofing around at the piano. Grant couldn't believe his father had tolerated it, but he had merely chuckled as he got up to leave for the night.

And then Ada had asked Jemma to play.

She had blushed - said she didn't remember a lot of pieces. Four years, he thought, since her parents had passed, and she'd gone to work without even a bachelor's degree to her name. She most likely hadn't touched a piano in as long.

She lifted her hands and, after stumbling a little, started in on a Grieg piece. It was soft and sweet - and, he thought, sad. Wistful.

She had nobody.

He did not like how he felt when he thought of that.

Ada was already nodding off at dinner, and now she was watching Jemma with half-hooded eyes. Not long after, Jemma said that perhaps it was time for her to go to bed.

He silently got to his feet and picked up his younger sister, much to the surprise of the others in the room. Jemma followed him out, and they silently put her to bed. Ada had wanted a hug and a kiss and sleepily extracted a promise from Jemma to read to her the next night.

It occurred to Grant that taking Jemma away at the end of the next week would be a devastating blow to his youngest sibling. He did want to dwell on it.

He said nothing to his wife the rest of the night. She had bid him good night, gone to her room, and proceeded to read or whatever it was she did. He had paced the sitting room, then he picked up the phone and dialed. "Len? About that tour tomorrow."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review! I'm glad people are enjoying it.

I just need to double check - have I made it sufficiently obvious who Len and Celia are in the SHIELD universe? His name's _Leo_nard; Celia's father is Agent Coulson and her name is from the Latin for... .:looks meaningfully at reader:.

Cole Song, however, has no ties to Coulson. (I never thought of that accidental link until a reviewer mentioned it!) It's actually a play on the name Charlie Soong, whose three daughters eventually married into the eventual powerbrokers of China in the early 1900s: Soong Ai-ling to the richest man in China in the 1920s, Soong Ching-ling to the founder of the Chinese republic (she later supported the PRC), and Soong May-ling (Madame Chiang) to the eventual president of the Chinese republic, based in Taipei.

* * *

Jemma was eating breakfast that morning with her father-in-law, and John Garrett Ward was telling one of his outrageous stories. She was laughing - it was funny, the way he told it, even though she had little doubt that it was quite embellished. She could not help but notice how gray and sickly his skin looked. At least the story-telling brought some color to his cheeks.

Her husband popped his head into the breakfast room. He completely ignored his father. "We're touring Len's facility at ten o'clock," he said, unceremoniously, before popping back out.

She was, quite frankly, surprised.

She searched through her clothes carefully. She had very little, and if it weren't for the kindness of the staff, doing laundry so often, she might be in trouble. She chose her best black skirt, a flat-front skirt which, at the same time, did not restrict her walking. She paired it with a pale yellow blouse, her stepmum's - a light, pastel yellow chiffon blouse with a fluttery cap sleeve and a liner inside, to offset the sheerness of the fabric. Everything was faded and simple, but it was proper.

It was all she had.

She slipped down to the kitchen and, with the cook's help, bagged a treats for each of the two Ward boys. Celia's invitation still stood, so she intended to go down to her house after the tour.

She was standing in the foyer, ready to go, when her husband appeared. He was dressed in a pale gray suit, tailored to fit, with a dark blue shirt. The top button was open, and he wore no tie. She noted with a blush that he was devastatingly handsome, like somebody who had stepped off the pages of a magazine.

"We'll walk down to meet them," he said, unceremoniously. "They're having a company lunch, as well, and we've been invited to stay for that."

They started off, her walking with her hands clasped behind her, her bag on her shoulder. He strode beside her, long steps she had a little trouble meeting. She finally spoke: "Your father," she said. "Do you know what is wrong with him?"

"Is there anything that isn't wrong? His entire cardiopulmonary system is failing. His heart is now enlarged and weak, as a result both of genetic disposition and of extremely poor care of his own health - bad handling of stress." He shrugged. "You would understand his records better than I."

"And what do the doctors advise?"

"Termination of all his involvement in the family businesses, to start. He has had a quadruple bypass already and cannot take another heart attack."

She sighed. "Your father finds it difficult to accept advice."

"That," he snorted, "is the understatement of the century."

"Perhaps he has called you home with the hope you will lift the burdens he bears," she said.

He laughed derisively.

"Do you love him?" she asked quietly.

"You tell me. I broke off all communication with my entire family for nine years. I lived recklessly, make horrendously risky investments - made a fortune independent of him. I freed myself from him."

She looked back steadily at him, her eyes large and vulnerable. But she did not back down. She stood silently, waiting for him to answer her earlier question.

"I do not love him. There is nothing to love. You are right - he and I are too much alike in that way." He paused. "This is your warning, as well."

"So why did he ask you back?" It was not a challenge. It was just a simple question.

"To reassert his control over me." It was as simple as that.

"And perhaps so he could see his son again before he dies," she said softly.

"So you read romantic novels," he sneered. "Father and son, crying on a deathbed with the family reconciled entirely. You refer to the prodigal son, come home."

She looked up at him again, the big eyes blinking just once. "The prodigal son is in the Bible," she said quietly. "That is not quite romantic, nor a novel."

"Touché," he replied.

She only smiled at him - not a victory smile, but just her normal, kind smile - and said nothing more. Ironically, it was her silence that agitated him all the more: he had hired her to be a quiet mouse, and now that she finally was, she had denied him the chance to work out his anger in sarcastic debate.

He struck back. "My father called me home because he wants me to meet his new business partner's daughter," he replied, and felt vicious satisfaction when she swiveled around to stare at him. "Cole Song is coming at the end of this week. He and his wife are CEOs of international companies in Beijing. His daughter Mae Qiaolian Song has just graduated from Columbia and will be starting at Wharton in the fall. Both our respective parents hope we will tolerate each other sufficiently to seal their partnership by marrying in the future."

She stared. "I had thought those types of marriages over. That you could marry of your own free will."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Of course we marry of our own free will. We willingly enter marriages for love and marriages for convenience - for political maneuvering, for social status, for money, for comfort," he raised an eyebrow at her as he said the last item, "for children, for companionship." He paused. "For spite, to anger somebody," he commented with an ironic tilt of the head. "All the same reasons others marry."

"And she is coming here with her parents," his wife said flatly. She was not amused. Jealous, perhaps?

"Yes."

"And so you advertised for a nanny without a basic university degree, so you could marry and flout me in front of this sophisticated young woman." Jemma's tone was sharp.

OK, so not jealous. He looked at his wife with narrowed eyes, his astonishment growing. Was she genuinely offended for a woman she had never met?

"Exactly," he replied firmly, testing his wife's resolve. "This woman's domineering father comes, unaware that his social venture, at least, is in vain."

Jemma's voice was tense, her tone disapproving. "You were not honest with me. I did not know I was to be used as an instrument of cruelty. I would not have agreed to this had I known."

"Cruelty?" Grant's tone was one of disbelief.

"A young woman has just graduated from a prestigious university and was expected to be introduced to you - a romantic introduction," his wife replied in a clipped, impatient tone. "But she will arrive to find the man she was to be introduced to just recently married a nanny older than she is, less educated than she is, less wealthy than she is. Congratulations on your cruel plot - and it is cruel!"

Her quiet, contemptuous declaration infuriated him. How dare she! "You were ready to take my money pretty handily," he snapped. "You never asked if there were third parties involved. The only two questions _you_ had were to request more money up front and to ensure that the money would be paid out, even if either of us predeceased the other. And now you want to talk ethics?" he sneered.

She flushed, but she did not look away. "My crimes," she said sharply, standing her ground, "do not excuse yours."

Despite his words to her, Grant still felt the need to defend himself, to justify himself in Jemma's eyes. "I never even entertained the thought of marrying Qiaolian - Mae. She used to come with her father, and she often played with Phil, who is a year and a half younger than she. From what I have seen of her, she is far too much like me for us to live in any type of peace."

"But," she said, "you did not simply tell your father this. You brought me here to embarrass and to humiliate everybody."

"Yes." He made no excuses. He had felt no guilt about it, either, until she had spoken.

She paused at the top of the hill, looking down towards the larger house serving as Len and Celia's headquarters. "Perhaps," she said finally, "Miss Song has had a fortunate escape."

"And you have not. You are far better able to handle me," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

It suddenly occurred to Grant that perhaps she was - perhaps the wife he had married was far better equipped to handle him than Mae Qiaolian Song - or even than Celia Coulson. Perhaps Jemma Fitzsimmons was far better equipped to handle him than he had even considered at the interview.

It did not sit well with him.

"I do not have to. Our marriage is not a permanent arrangement," she reminded him. "We will not see each other again in two weeks - or sooner, it seems, if this family comes this weekend. How long shall I have to stay? Just until you humiliate the newly-arrived guests?"

"At least until after the dinner party. Possibly longer." He had wanted to leave and to go home immediately, but he rather suspected his visit would be longer than he had planned. There was far more disarray than he had anticipated because of his father's health. He might have to stay a little longer - and thus, so would she.

They walked in silence the rest of the way. Some distance away, he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. They would be in view of the facility soon, and they had agreed to the charade of being in love.

When they arrived, Len and Celia were there to greet them - Len in a polo shirt and khaki pants, Celia even more dressed down in a bohemian cotton blouse and boot-cut jeans. Celia was warm and inviting as always, surprised and delighted to see Jemma present also. Len seemed cautiously optimistic.

~| tw |~

Grant discovered something during the tour, something he was still trying to decide if he liked. He couldn't say if he'd chosen his wife properly or not. He was still trying to resent her for her set-down of him this morning, but he found he couldn't.

She had looked refreshingly pretty this morning, standing in the foyer. She wore the same black flats - he was beginning to suspect she had no other shoes besides those - and a black skirt he'd seen her wear before, and a pretty but faded blouse. Her hair, normally straight, was now wavy and tied back loosely but neatly in a bun at the back of her head. She looked like an impoverished schoolteacher.

As they toured, however, he was astonished at how she appeared. She walked like a princess: easily and steadily, but back straight, one foot directly in front of the other. She leaned forward slightly, listening to each person who spoke to her, looking at what they pointed out, and asking questions. Some were simpler, but most demonstrated an intelligence that both surprised and delighted Len's employees. She was quieter during the discussions of finances, but no less interested. She listened carefully, spoke perceptively and kindly, and he had seen more than one employee blush proudly at the individual attention she gave each.

It was quickly evident that Jemma Ward was more popular than her husband - something which, rather than causing him any jealousy, amused him to no end.

Grant was proud of her, though he had no right to be. He had chosen her to be a quiet mouse, a humiliation to his father because of how quiet and shabby and downtrodden she was. She was shabby, to be sure - more raggedy than the workmen in Len and Celia's fields. But she demonstrated a complete lack of self-awareness about her appearance: she was neither ashamed of how she looked, picking at her clothes and her hair self-consciously, or proud of how she looked, reveling in her shabbiness. It simply was a non-issue to her, one she deemed not important enough for her attention. Her concern was not with herself but with those with whom she spoke. She genuinely wanted to hear what they had to say; they got her full focus and attention. She was warm and kind and poised and dignified and brilliant.

He had not known she had any of these qualities and had not picked her for them. She had said nothing at the interview, and he had chosen to buy that silence as confirmation of his own view of her. Now, however, he was delighted to find she was all those things.

As they passed through from the computer labs to the greenhouse lab, one of the engineers clambered up onto a half-wall to point out something at a top shelf. He reached down to help up the lady of the hour, only to find her husband already standing there, smiling at her, extending a hand to steady her as she climbed. The newest Mrs. Ward blushed prettily and put her hand in his, allowing him to help her as she carefully stepped up onto the thin wall before letting go and turning her attention back to the guide.

Lunch was an informal affair, more reflective of Len's cheeriness and Celia's lack of formality. One grill was running already. Len had the other one flipped over, pulling some wires and lines, a smudge of black on his cheek. If Celia's look was anything to tell by, she was more than in love with her husband's ability to work with his hands. Soon he had it fixed and both grills were going full power - much to the delight of the employees, mostly younger scientists, who sent up a big cheer.

Even for all the informality, Len still sat at the end of one table, and Celia at the other. As guests of honor, Grant was seated next to Celia, and Jemma next to Len. Conversation flowed easily at Grant and Celia's end - she was still as entertaining as ever. As Grant watched her, he felt some of his resentment towards his brother returning.

When he glanced down towards the other end of the table, though, he found the diners there completely absorbed in their own business. They were engaged in a heated discussion, several of the engineers and scientists having forgotten their food in what they were talking about. Somebody finally said something he didn't hear, and a roar of laughter went up from the other end. Len was unable to stop laughing and had to take a drink of water; one engineer complained vociferously about having snorted soda up his nose.

And in the midst of them, Jemma was laughing, her eyes crinkling slightly, her smile wide.

After lunch, while in the process of clean-up, an inpromptu game of American football started up, Len tossing the ball to Celia. Grant had jumped in only part-way through, even as Jemma stood on the sidelines, clapping and cheering. It ended when he tossed a touchdown to the field manager, who ran into the 'end zone' and danced his victory dance. One side whooped and hollered; the other groaned playfully.

And then he discovered, to much raucous, good-natured laughter, that his wife had been rooting _against_ him for Celia. Jemma gasped when he swung her off her feet, pinning her against the table, one arm on each side of her torso as he leaned over her with a mock menacing look; behind him, he could hear hoots and whistles and laughter from Len and Celia's employees. "Did you bet against me?" he whispered playfully, an amused smile tugging on his lips.

"What?" Jemma scoffed as she leaned back, squirming to get away from him. But then, she was not especially good at dissembling, Grant had discovered. She broke a few seconds later. "I may have done," she replied sheepishly, caught out. She then protested indignantly, "I was cheering for Celia, and you joined the game late!"

She hadn't even tried to lie. Or play coy. Grant fought back the sudden urge to kiss her.

Given how the company took leave of them after lunch, he had to admit that his own popularity had no doubt been enhanced significantly by hers. The energetic handshaking and invitation to come back would not have been quite as enthusiastic had she not been there. He was deeply amused by the whole thing.

~| tw |~

After work, the employees went back to work as Celia and Len took their half-day off. The four of them walked down in the other direction, towards the other house on the property. It had been established as an in-law home, Grant told her, and their maternal and paternal sets of grandparents would stay there often. Apparently Celia and Len were now living there.

"Your home is so lovely," Jemma said, smiling. The morning had been fun and enlightening - one of the best she'd had since she'd come to this house. The prospect of spending more time with this lovely couple had buoyed her spirits. "The night we drove up, at that first curve, I saw your house from the side, all lit, and I thought it was the main house!"

They all laughed at that, and her husband smiled affectionately at her. She thought to herself that he was a far, far better actor than she. "You didn't tell me that," he said warmly.

"You would have laughed at me," she replied. "I hate being laughed at. And I was so nervous."

"Even with me by you?" he said softly, his fingers brushing hers.

Yes, Jemma thought, her husband was certainly a far better actor than she. Even though she knew he was acting, her heart still flip-flopped, and her blush was quite real.

As they approached the house, when Len and Celia were not looking, Jemma paused briefly. She looked in her bag, then fished out the two treats the kitchen had given her this morning. She quickly slipped them into her husband's suit jacket pockets, one in each pocket. When he felt her hands on him, he caught her by the wrists, pulling her around to look at him. His gaze on her was intense - amused and gentle, but intense. Jemma could feel herself blush down to her toes.

As they reached the back door, it burst open, the two boys rushing out towards their parents. Celia reached down, her arms wide open, scooping them both into her arms and tickling them as they giggled. Then, as Celia got up and took the baby from the housekeeper's arms, the boys towards their father, who greeted them with the same affection - which, given how reserved the family was, demonstrated how much he truly loved his children, at least to Jemma's eyes.

"Say hello to your Aunt Jemma and introduce yourself to your Uncle Grant," Len prompted as he waved to the bigger boy. "Our eldest, who's five."

"Hi, Aunt Jemma," he greeted obediently, but with clear pleasure. He then turned to the older Grant. "Sir," he replied, shaking the older man's hand. "I'm Grant. I'm named after you."

"Pleased to meet you," replied the older Grant, greeting him very seriously.

"And this," Len said, gently pushing forward the younger boy, "is Clark."

"Auntie Jemmie," he greeted in a baby voice, then turned to his uncle and very seriously shook the older man's hand. "Uncle Grant."

"Clark," he greeted with the same serious tone, the corners of his lips threatening to turn up in a smile at the little boy's solemn face.

"Come on inside," Celia said. "Reynolds makes a killer lemonade-iced tea combination. Then we'll give you a tour of the house."

They were heading inside when the small three-year-old sidled up to Jemma. "Auntie Jemmie," he whispered. "You said you'd bring us a treat from the kitchen."

"Clark!" Len said sternly, quickly turning at that. "Aunt Jemma is your guest."

The little boy looked sheepish. "Sorry," he whispered, looking down at his shoes.

"I'm afraid we left in a hurry this morning," she said apologetically, giving him a smile.

He nodded and slid his hand into hers, still beaming up at her, even in his disappointment.

Grant was no dummy; he recognized a cue when he got one. "Would these be of interest to anybody here?" he asked, producing the two bags from his jacket pockets. They were two huge cookies, shaped like letters - one G, one C, and decorated with sprinkles and icing. He handed the correct one to each boy.

"Oh, cookies!" the older one cried in delight. "Thank you, Uncle Grant. See, look, Clark, it's C for your name. And G for mine."

The three-year-old just held his cookie in stunned silence, his eyes shining.

"Clark," Len prompted with gentle patience.

The little boy opened his mouth and nothing came out. He wandered over and shyly hugged Grant's knees. The open affection was clearly something the man was not used to. Momentarily unable to speak, but unwilling to hurt the child, he simply ran a hand through the boy's curls.

~| tw |~

The afternoon went as well as could be expected. Celia was a generous and supportive person, but she did tend to attract one's attention. Her humor, her teasing - which often bordered on pushing the envelope - were as on target as ever. She had been and still was the life of the party.

It was a mistake to come, he thought as he felt his resentment growing. Perhaps he could have tamped down on his anger while at the lab - there were so many other people - but this home was the happy domestic life he had assumed he would have had with Celia. To be confronted with it but to have no part in it was something else entirely.

Celia got up from her porch chair to go inside, excusing herself to bring out more refreshments, and Len went with her.

The younger Grant Ward - his nephew, he thought bitterly, not his son - was seated on the swing, talking to Jemma animatedly. He was dark, like Celia - darker hair, dark eyes. The thought repeated itself to the older Grant: this is what his son with Celia would have looked like.

He excused himself brusquely to go to the bathroom. Jemma looked up, concerned, and the two boys blinked at him, seemingly still a little afraid of him.

Grant knew where the bathroom was - he'd been in this guest house so many times, before it had become Len and Celia's. He went straight there and leaned against the bathroom counter, breathing in and out slowly. This was behind him, he reminded himself. He was here to demonstrate that his family had no more power over him - Celia included.

After a couple minutes of simply just standing and letting his mind wander aimlessly, he flushed the toliet. Despite not actually having used the bathroom, he washed his hands anyhow and left the bathroom. He didn't especially want to rejoin the party.

D-mn his wife. She roped him into all this, with all her talk about family. This was her fault.

He wandered the lower floor a little bit, stopping in the study. His grandparents had used it when they visited, as had Aunt Victoria. It was different now - renovated, more modern. Built-in bookshelves in black, with two built-in desks. Both were messy, as was typical of both Len and Celia: papers scattered across the desktop, things still tucked in machines, half-done. Almost instinctively, he went to straighten things, as he used to do for both of them years ago.

A lifetime ago.

He stepped back consciously. He was not their father, he reminded himself. They were adults now, out of his care. They chose it that way.

He left and meandered back towards the porch, where they were seated. He could hear laughter in the kitchen, and he instinctively stepped back so they wouldn't see him.

Len and Celia were working in tandem. There was a large plate with fruit and cheese and cookies, placed on a tray. She was standing on a small stepladder, handing down cups and saucers as he placed them on the tray. She was laughing, and he was just shaking his head at her - his apparent disapproval belied by the amused smile on his face. She used her relative height on her husband to tackle him, wrapping her arms around his neck and dropping a huge kiss on him. She was still laughing, even as she pressed her cheek against his. He pulled her down to his level, tugging her against him; her arms were still wrapped up on his shoulders, around his neck; she smiled up at her husband, almost shyly, her eyes shining.

Grant had never seen Celia look like that before. She had always been merry, confident to the point of arrogance. She had never been vulnerable like this with him, like she was now with Len - even when talking about her less-than-wonderful childhood.

Perhaps she hadn't been pressured. Perhaps she hadn't settled for the second son when she couldn't have the first. Had he been so deluded this entire time?

Grant straightened and quickly stepped away from his spot, heading back out to the porch. He came out of the side door, taking a moment simply to look out over the expansive Ward property, trying to gather his thoughts. He took his new insight and stowed it away, to ponder some other time.

He could hear giggling, and his nephew's voice still going.

He came around the side of the house, startled when he saw nobody sitting on the porch. He looked quickly towards the backyard, and saw all four sitting on the swingset.

His own wife was sitting on one of the swings, with the baby, Kitty, sitting upright in her lap, cocooned comfortably and safely there and clutching a small toy in her hands. The two boys were seated on the glider swing, facing each other, waiting eagerly as Clark got his shoe tied by his new aunt. At the same time, little Grant was holding a discussion with her. She dropped a kiss on the smaller boy's head, never pausing her conversation with the eldest son except to give him an encouraging smile.

The little boy said something - Grant couldn't hear what it was - and she laughed. Her eyes became small half-moons, and her laugh was warm and sweet.

Genuine.

Little Grant beamed, proud of himself for making their guest laugh. Clark giggled at Jemma, and Kitty laughed because her caretaker was laughing.

Grant found himself smiling, too, his feet moving instinctively towards them.

~| tw |~

Len looked down at the tray loaded with food. "I believe we have more than enough."

Celia came around the corner, holding some glasses. She started to say something, then looked out the window. "Len. Len, look."

Their two sons were squealing and giggling in delight. Clark sat on his uncle's shoulders, his little hands gripping the older man's dark hair, his little legs kicking in delight. They were chasing Clark's older brother; the younger Grant had on his namesake's suitjacket, the sleeves flapping past his wrists as he squealed with laughter, running about. At one point he hid behind Jemma for safety, his small arms wrapped around her legs. His uncle and his younger brother came chasing him, ducking around her to reach for the little boy. The boys were giggling, even as Jemma laughed, running her free hand through little Grant's hair; baby Kitty shouted happily, clapping from her perch in her aunt's arms.

And the older Grant was smiling - laughing.

"I've actually never seen him laugh or smile that much - not for real, anyhow. It's almost like the robot found a human side," Celia joked, turning to her husband. She frowned, her joviality quickly disappearing when she saw his face. "Len?"

He quickly snapped out of it, clearing his throat and blinking a few times, then heading over to pick up the tray of food.

"Len." Celia slipped her arm into his, moving him to put the tray back onto the counter. She turned him around to face her, then looked up at him expectantly.

He blinked again, his eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. He said nothing for a minute. When he finally did speak, his voice was tight with emotion. "It seems alien to you," he began, slowly. "Grant behaving like this. I doubt Phil remembers it, either. But this - " he swallowed, glancing quickly out the window again " - this Grant is the one I remember from my childhood."

~| tw |~

There were chatting after dinner, Celia regaling them with a story about one of the computer scientists she worked with at the lab. It was borderline inappropriate, but then she'd always revelled in being slightly outrageous and rule-breaking. Len's eyes were on his wife, in the midst of her enthusiastic storytelling; their sons' eyes were on their mother, cheering and laughing; their daughter's eyes were on their mother, studying her with a beaming, toothless grin. Grant's own wife was laughing along. Celia was just magnetic and had always drawn the eye; she was the one who, as Trip might put it, always would "bring the noise and funk" wherever she went.

For Grant, Celia had always skirted the line between entertaining him and driving him nuts. To be quite honest, he'd forgotten the latter aspect over the last nine years. He remembered well how much fun Celia could be, but he'd completely forgotten how exhausting it was to try to keep up with her.

He got up to get himself more water from the pitcher. As he leaned on the counter to watch them, he found his attention diverted. At one point, he watched Jemma bend her head down to talk to the tot sitting in her lap, pointing at the child's mother and whispering in the baby girl's ear.

He had to admit that in his youth, he would have completely overlooked somebody like his wife. He had nearly done just a few days ago, at one point believing she was a colorless bore. Jemma was not the prettiest in the room, nor the most forward, nor the most demonstrative. She did not attract the limelight. But it was precisely in standing next to somebody more glamorous that she was most beautiful: in her quiet grace, in her calm face, in her genteel dignity, in her genuiness of heart, in her generosity of spirit. She had the amazing ability to remain herself at all times, even when putting others first. He couldn't even begin to find something to which to compare her.

He wondered how many times he had hastily passed over others like Jemma. He would have done so with her, as well, had he not been looking very specifically for a quiet mouse.

Not that she was that, either, as he had discovered. A quiet mouse would not have called her chilling father-in-law "Dad" and sat patiently with a frightened young girl on a piano bench. A quiet mouse would have trailed behind him silently on the laboratory tour, not engage the employees in their areas of expertise. A quiet mouse would not have confronted him over his disagreement with his brother.

Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward was getting under his skin. For the first time, Grant did not hate it.

~| tw |~

Jemma finally excused them an hour after dinner ended. She had made a promise to Ada to read to her before bedtime, and she needed to keep it.

Len had laughed in amusement when his sons instantly rushed upstairs to take their baths - early! - and show their newly-met aunt and uncle their pyjamas. Little Grant was wearing Iron Man pj's, and Clark was in Captain American pj's - gifts from their Uncle Phil, who apparently was a fan of the Avengers. The two little brothers headed to the bathroom, each climbing up on their respective step stools to brush their teeth and to show the results to their new Aunt Jemma.

Grant stood in the doorway to the bathroom, watching the little boys giggling and swordfighting with their toothbrushes and showing their teeth to Jemma for final approval. A small, trace smile unconsciously crossed his lips as he watched: she inspected Clark's teeth, using his brush to clear away a little bit left, and then little Grant's, giving them each a kiss on the forehead when done. When they finished, they scurried over to give him hugs, beaming up at him.

He was quiet when he and Jemma finally bid their farewells to his brother. At the doorway, Len was talking to Jemma earnestly about a new experiment at the lab. Grant took the moment to pull Celia aside. "I know you're taking Jemma shopping tomorrow."

"Yup." She popped the 'p'.

"She'll need a dress for the dinner in two days, minimally. Get her clothes for a black tie event, white tie event, formal dinner party, everything. Down to daily clothes. You know what quantity she'd need."

Celie grinned, her eyebrows waggling. "Lingerie and bathing suit?"

Grant rolled his eyes. How had he forgotten how outrageous Celia could get? "Let Jemma dictate."

"She's going to dictate nothing, you know."

"I know that. I meant tastes. You know how much she needs to get. Let her choose style and color."

"Aw, you don't trust me?"

He'd seen some of the things Celia had once chosen to wear - designed for shock value. He'd forgotten, he had to admit. "Like h-ll."

Celia grinned.

Grant stopped to talk to his brother, extending his right hand. "Len." The two wives moved off quietly, letting them converse. "Thank you."

His brother smiled then, a genuine, easy smile, as he shook his older brother's hand. "Thank you for coming."

"Your business," Grant began, "should be far larger and better known than it is. For the science and the methodology you and Celia are using, you could be raking in the cash. I have no doubt working near home is comfortable for you, but if you want, I can give you the names of some financial managers. Get you guys better grants."

At that, Len grinned, wide. "Thank you."

Grant paused for a long time. "I'm happy for you, Len," he finally said, quietly. Truthfully, without reservation.

"Thank you." After a moment, the younger man said, "I'm glad you married Jemma, Grant. She's amiable, to be sure - but I believe she's very good for you. More than I could have thought possible."

Grant stilled, then nodded. "You have an appointment, I believe," he said, turning to his wife.

* * *

They walked back to the main house in silence - but a comfortable one. Grant's mind was preoccupied with all that had happened. This had been an interesting day for him - an eye-opening one.

He tried hard now to drum up resentment regarding Celia and found he was now unable to do so. He had to admit, he'd rather forgotten the woman's _outré_ antics when they were younger; Celia had matured and toned down and he still thought she was a bit nuts, even now. Had he been in love with her simply because she was different from him? Had he been in love with her because his mother had championed her? Had he been in love with her just because she was everything his father hated?

Had he ever simply loved and accepted Celia for who she was, or had he been in love with his own image of who she was?

That was not a comforting thought, to recognize one's own self-delusion.

Perhaps, he conceded, it was true that Len had felt trapped, caught in between his deep affection for his brother and his love for Celia. Grant had to acknowledge now that perhaps Len was the better choice - his younger brother's quirks and lifestyle, away from the flash of cameras, would allow Celia to be who she was. Perhaps, Grant thought, his own chosen life, with all its obligations, would have crushed her bohemian spirit.

Acknowledging his brother's own dilemma allowed Grant to think more kindly of Len. Len had never been especially good at standing up for himself - Grant had always stood between him and their father. Len's bravery generally only appeared in defense of his family rather than himself. It was not hard to see Len letting go of Celia, even at great cost to himself, if that's what he thought she wanted. Perhaps that mess nine years ago was not handled in the best way, but they were all young and immature.

Letting go of his anger towards Len was freeing, like lifting a half-ton weight off his chest. He and Len had always been the closest in the Ward family, being so close in age; perhaps, Grant acknowledged, his bitterness was due equally to the loss of Len as it was the loss of Celia. Perhaps his anger had been due more to his feeling of betrayal by his brother than over Celia herself. Being with his brother again had brought back, full-force, his own sense of isolation. How he had missed his younger brother those nine years! For the first time, Grant could think this without anger.

He had nearly missed his chance for this reconciliation, had it not been for his wife.

His wife.

He snapped out his musings, looking at her from the corner of his eye. She was walking just as she had at the tour that morning - gracefulness seemed her natural state - but with her face firmly tilted upward, her gaze glued to the night sky. It was dark enough to see stars and the not-quite full moon, lighting everything in a whitish, natural glow. Her eyes were shining; she was completely absorbed in her own world.

It was beautiful sight to behold.

He said nothing to her, afraid that if he spoke she would become self-conscious. He quietly strode beside her, taking smaller steps so she could keep up. When they got to the house, he opened the door for her, giving her a small smile as she beamed up thanks at him and entered.

They were headed through the back of the house when they bumped into Phil. The young man stared at them blankly for a moment, then said in an accusatory tone, "Ada was looking for you."

The pair looked at him, confused at how bitter he seemed. Grant replied guardedly, "We know. Jemma promised to read to her at bedtime."

Phil stared, the accusation in his tone turning into puzzlement. "_Bed_time?" He glanced at the foyer clock. "Oh." His face cleared, resuming its original neutral, guarded look. "OK." With that, he headed off.

Jemma blinked, then looked up at Grant, completely baffled. The man shrugged. He had no idea, either.

They headed upstairs. Grant suggested she go to change, first, but Jemma pointed out that it was nearly Ada's bedtime and she wanted to make sure she saw the little girl first. The door to the child's bedroom was closed. Jemma knocked, but the door didn't open.

They heard a shuffling, and then the quiet *snick* of the door opening a crack. Jemma smiled warmly down at the child: "Are you read to read, sweetie?" Ada just looked up at her, shocked.

His wife blinked, clearly confused by the reception she was getting. Grant, though, knew instantly what had happened - and while Phil had looked so angry downstairs. A few minutes later, Ada inadvertently confirmed his suspicions when she said sadly, almost inaudibly, "Daddy said you were busy with Len and Celia."

"Well, yes," Jemma replied, still clearly confused. "This morning and this afternoon. We had a tour of where they worked and then went to their house. And now we're home." When Ada just blinked, then suddenly opened the door and rushed to Jemma, burrowing her face in the woman's side and clutching at her shirt. The woman looked up at Grant, baffled; she studied his face a moment, and he watched as understanding dawned. "Oh, sweetheart," she gasped as she pulled the little girl away so she could look her in the face. "Did you believe I wouldn't come?"

Ada blinked a few times, her eyes red-rimmed. She buried her face back in Jemma's side. "Daddy said you were busy," she said again, her voice small and teary and muffled.

Jemma opened her mouth to protest again, but Grant touched her arm and shook his head. Nine years of being put on her father's backburner could not be undone in one night, nor by words. He doubted that Ada had even completely believed Jemma when the latter had set their reading appointment; the fact that she barely reacted to what she thought was another broken promise just spoke to how used to it she was. The mere fact that Jemma had held to her word and was on-time for bedtime reading was a balm to the hurt child.

Jemma led the child over to her bed and sat down on it, pulling the child up next to her and burrowing her in her blankets. He could hear Ada sniffling. Jemma said nothing, just wrapped an arm tightly around the child and hugged her tight.

It was a good fifteen minutes of quiet, with Jemma just murmuring soft, barely audible words into Ada's hair. They then decided on a book, and Jemma kicked off her shoes and leaned back against Ada's headboard. The little girl crawled over to her side, and Jemma wrapped an arm around her and started to read.

He'd sat in the chair nearby as Jemma had read to Ada. It was different, he thought, hearing the Pevensie children in an actual English accent, even if it was an affected RP one. The story just sounded different coming from her lips, and she read with animation. Her whole face would demonstrate surprise when the characters were surprised, and her eyebrows would furrow when somebody was angry. Soon Ada had forgotten her earlier (misconstrued) disappointment and was giggling at some of the voices Jemma was using. Hearing his wife read with such kind affection transported him back to his childhood, and it wasn't hard to see the adoration in Ada's eyes for the older woman.

At one point, he pulled his eyes from Jemma just long enough to look at Ada. His sister blinked at him a moment, then smiled happily; he was about to return it when he realized he was already smiling, watching his wife read to his baby sister. Every once in awhile, the woman would reach up and stroke her hair, and the child would smile unconsciously.

By the end of reading, Ada was beaming and cheerful again, giggling at funny parts in the story. The resilience of children, Grant thought. The mere fact of Jemma's appearing on time had restored all of her hope in her new sister-in-law, and he had little doubt that his wife was now his sister's favorite adult.

Grant had always felt so trapped, beholden to the life in and for which he had been raised but unable to shake that sense of oppressiveness. He had tried rebellion for a time, and that hadn't worked. He had then assumed that he couldn't have one without the other - that with his financial responsibilities came cold repression - and had finally given in, essentially becoming the thing he hated - his father.

His wife, though - !

Despite his plans for the exact opposite, she had shouldered her responsibilities as the heir's wife but with love and concern for each person with whom she had contact. She was brilliant and mannered and proper, but she was also so serenely warm and loving - not especially demonstrative, but quietly affectionate. She was so silently transformative: she had turned his childhood home upside down and inside out, without changing any of its normal goings-on. She had infused his chosen lifestyle with the genuine warmth and affection which had been missing his whole life, and she'd only been here a few days.

Ada was nodding off. Jemma gently brushed her hair from her forehead and gave her a kiss. The girl instantly awoke, begging her to stay in garbled, sleepy words; the woman just smiled and gave the child a hug and another kiss, tucking her into bed with a quiet promise to read the next night.

Her husband watched, a trace smile playing on his lips. He felt, not for the first time that day, a swell of proud affection for his wife. She was brilliant and warm, which he had ceased to believe possible any more.

~| tw |~

Grant waited for his wife in the hallway. When she emerged, she jumped a little at seeing him, then smiled best she could. He then laced his fingers with hers and led her back to their suite. Jemma was clearly puzzled, but she did not question it. He took her out the large French doors in the sitting room, right out to the outside deck. The view was beautiful, enchanting in the twilight dusk. She could see Len and Celia's house below, and the water in the distance.

Her mind was still on Ada. Her heart broke for the child - how much had happened that she was so accustomed to disappointment? That she had barely shed a tear when she thought that promise had been broken, and merely resigned herself to loneliness?

Promises, in Jemma's home, were law. Nobody made them lightly: promises were rare for that reason, but almost never broken. One could only break them for a horribly legitimate reason: for example, having a car crash on the way home, thus missing a promise to read a bedtime story. Broken promises were, for Jemma, no laughing matter.

Had Ada suffered so much disappointment in her short life that she had resigned herself perpetually to that fate?

Had this made her husband the way he was?

She could tell that Grant had pushed back against it. He held to his responsibilities - even coming here when his father asked. He had gone to see Len and Celia. He had insisted on coming to see Ada in time for bedtime reading, as she had promised. He spent himself for his family, however much he insisted he hated them.

It made her so sad, to think of Ada and of Grant this way. And Len and Phil.

"Don't think on it," he said to her, suddenly, speaking out of the blue. She nearly jumped at his voice, then blushed at his words; it was as though he had read her mind. "You have done for Ada more tonight by coming on time than could be done for her in a year."

"She didn't believe I would come," Jemma breathed, pained to the core.

"It wasn't because she did not trust you, yourself. One becomes inured to disappointment in this house," he replied tonelessly. "Endless amounts of broken promises. You learn to trust nobody."

"Except yourself," she repeated his words back to him, her voice quiet and sad. She looked up at him, unable to keep the tears from her eyes, her heart breaking. How much damage had her husband sustained over his twenty years, in this house?

"Leave it," he replied, gently. "You cannot fix everything overnight."

He looked down at her for a long time, and she thought she could see turmoil behind his eyes. It was interesting - he was normally so shuttered to her. He was open, now - but deeply conflicted. There seemed to be rage and compassion all mixed in one.

"It was good to see Len and Celia," he said quietly. "And I can say that honestly."

She said nothing, allowing him to work out those thoughts.

"And, before you ask, I have worked out my differences with Len," he said, and oddly, his voice seemed amused - filled with mirth.

Jemma opened her mouth to protest indignantly - she was not going to ask! - then quickly shut it. She _was_ going to ask, actually. She blushed in embarrassment at being caught.

Grant pointed a finger playfully at her nose. "Ah. See? I know you."

She blushed more. "Well, it was a legitimate question."

He chuckled, his laugh lightening the mood. After a moment he turned to look out over the property. "I was so angry at Len," he said quietly. "I had confided in him, and he had wrested Celia from under my nose - or so I thought. I was too ready to attribute to him devious, underhanded motives rather than simply ones from fear and inability."

"'Cock-up before conspiracy'," Jemma quoted. At that, her husband raised an eyebrow at her choice of words. "It's a quote!" she insisted.

"You were right," her husband said quietly, looking at her, steadily. "Len was always my shadow; he rarely contradicted me. To live under that, and then to learn that one's elder brother loved the same woman - " Grant shrugged. "We were all young, as well. Immature. We handled the matter poorly."

"Len seems to love you very much," Jemma said warmly, her voice filled with joy. She was so happy that he had at least reconciled with one family member. She laid a small hand on his arm. "And you, him."

He smiled down at her for a moment, studying her. His eyes were still open to her, but she was now having trouble reading him. She suddenly couldn't tell what he was thinking.

She shivered inadvertently, and he removed his jacket to drape around her shoulders. She was still wearing the light chiffon blouse from this morning.

He said nothing for a long time, his thumb gently brushing her knuckles. He held up her hands, where he could see them in the soft light from the house.

She smiled at him, but he seemed distracted. He ran his hands along hers, then up her arms to her shoulders, tracing her neck and her shoulderblades. He was frowning, his brow slightly furrowed, but he did not look angry.

"You are very thin," he said, his fingers brushing over hers.

She just chuckled. "I have thin fingers but hefty knuckles."

He did not seem to find the answer satisfactory, even as he ran his fingers over her arms. "Do you eat enough?" he said, his voice soft and sad.

She gave a laugh and relaxed. This was a simple matter to resolve. "You've seen me eat," she said reassuringly. "You cannot truly believe me to be anorexic or bulimic."

That was not what he was asking, nor was he distracted by what she had said. "I mean, do you get enough food when you don't work?" His fingers continued to trace over her. "I can't imagine your employers not giving you proper food and nutrition, but on your own - did you eat three squares a day, or the equivalent, after you left the Fitzgeralds?"

She got quiet. "I ate enough," she said, as brightly and reassuringly as she could. She ate two meals a day when she lived with her brother. So did he. There was a lot of Ramen, but they did eat a lot of vegetables. Meat was often a luxury, though she tried to make sure they both got some protein.

Leo told her he ate just fine when she wasn't there, but she did not believe it; she was sure Leo maintained the same two meal, meager servings he ate when she was there.

It wasn't as though if they ate less they could send the extra food to their family. They just ate less to keep costs down, and that extra money could go to their family in Idaho. The four of them needed to eat three proper meals, Jemma had made Penny promise. They could skip the treats, but they could not skip the necessary vegetables and protein and whole grains. They were growing, still. She wanted the same for her brother Leo, too, but he would not be gainsaid on changing his diet.

Her answer made her husband seem even sadder. "You don't need to worry about me," she assured him warmly. "I - "

"I don't need to worry about you," he said softly, his tone chastising. "About my own wife."

"But ours isn't a real arrangement," she pointed out.

"You care for everybody else," he said softly. "Who cares for you?"

"I have - friends," she said.

"Ones who put your needs above theirs, as you do for them?"

She thought about Leo and Penny and the children. Her parents' family friends. Her stepmother's grandmother. Yes, she thought. She was blessed with those who cared as deeply for her as she did them. They would sacrifice everything for her. Penny and Leo already had, in their ways. "Yes," she said softly. "I am very blessed."

He looked at her steadily, starting a little at her comment. "Most people wouldn't consider a life like yours blessed," he said thoughtfully.

"But I am," she replied stoutly. And while she had to admit some days to wishing away the worries and the cares of having so much family, she did not seriously consider it. The cares of having a large family came part and parcel with the joys of it. She could not trade one without the other. "Life is what you make of it." She paused. "And I believe most would call me more than a little lucky, given our agreement."

"I should be providing for you," he replied, waving it off. "You are my wife."

His eyes were darker, more intense than normal - and normal was very dark, very intense. She had a little trouble reading him. Perhaps his eyes looked so dark because of the lighting, she decided.

"Your home is beautiful," she said, softly. "You must have at least a few good memories of this place."

"Some." His voice was quiet, but not hard - more soft and wistful. "Len and I played here - Robin Hood. Jungle explorers. Wild West. I taught Phil how to climb a tree. How to swim. Watched him play at being Captain America."

She smiled at that, looking up at him, just to see him watching her with an indescribable look on his face. "Why did you pretend to be American in the interview?" he asked, suddenly. "More people would want to hire you as an English nanny than as an American one."

She blushed - visible even in the dim light. "I wanted the job," she said softly. "And I had tried in my natural accent. I had not thought it an issue at all, but my very first interviewer told me that she couldn't understand a word I said."

He looked at her in amused disbelief. "And so you believed it?"

"The second interviewer said the same," she said, not especially wanting to remember that. "And the third. The first interview I tried an American accent, I was hired."

"Astonishing," he muttered.

"But it seems I was not very good at that, either," she mumbled, remembering how he had seen right through her accent after being in her presence only a couple of hours.

"You were quite good," he disagreed. "And I do not say that to placate you. Your accent was impeccable."

She frowned, confused. "But you still knew I was not American."

He looked at her for a moment, then impulsively put his hands on his hips and raised the pitch of his voice and gave it a raspy bent, then narrowed his eyes as he looked down at her. "I'm Grant Ward," he rasped, imitating her imitating him. "I own half of Boston - and half its resources."

She wrinkled her nose, a sheepish half-smile, half-wince on her face. "Oh," was all she said, blushing at having been caught. So he had seen that, had he? This was horribly embarrassing.

He just smiled at her, taking his hands off his hips. He looked not at all offended and seemed more amused by the whole thing. He then let her off the hook, explaining, "I do check your background, and your references mentioned you were English. I also have business interests in Britain. One of my closest friends is an Englishman; I saw him through a difficult time in his life. Different small habits tipped me off." He absently brushed a stray lock of hair behind her eyes. "Your name, for one - Jemima, in America, is associated with a brand of syrup, and we rarely call our children 'Jemma'. The name Jenna is far more common here than Jemma, especially for women our age."

"Oh." She blushed. She had not thought of that. Nor had her brother.

"How you sometimes answered my questions," he continued, listing things which had tipped him off. "The syntax you used. How you greeted Antoine Triplett."

"How I - ?"

"In America," he smiled, his eyes teasing, "we call our surgeons 'doctors'."

"Oh." She blushed in embarrassment. She should have remembered. Leo had mentioned it.

Her husband traced his finger along her cheek, to her bare ear. He was very close; she could feel the heat rising off of him. He looked at her again, turning her ever so slightly to face him, his eyes still that intense black. The quiet affection he had shown was gone, replaced by - she didn't know what. It was different, but at least she did not feel unsafe. It made her lightheaded and giddy - and nervous.

He slid his hands around her waist for a moment and rested his forehead against hers. He inhaled deeply for a moment, and then, as if struggling to lift something very heavy, stepped back. "This was not part of our contract," he muttered. "And I will not force you. Go. Quickly."

She blinked, confused. Then - _oh_. So she had not been wrong when she had sensed something shifted. She had not realized what he wanted. She had never quite considered that he might actually want _her_.

"You would not be forcing me," she heard herself say. He looked startled, and then something in his eyes ignited.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review! I'm glad people are enjoying it. I'm rather surprised, tbh, that people love the story so much.

- "aneurysm face" is from "Hawaii Five-0" :-) . The rabbit in brandy sauce is one of Benedict Cumberbatch's lines from "Amazing Grace".

**THANK YOU** to lloydgrints ( u/2100161/), who made a beautiful edit for this story! The photo of Brett Dalton looking out the window is exactly how I see this story's Grant Ward, and I imagine the house with the same gray stone pictured. The picture of Jemma and Leo hugging, with John Garrett and Grant talking is a great contrast, and now that I've seen the picture, I think of Jemma's suitcase as that red one second from the right. Thanks again to lloydgrints for that lovely work. If a picture is a thousand words, I'll just let you look at the pictures and I won't have to write the rest of this story. ;-)

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Grant slammed his fists into the punching bag with more force than he should have.

His father had said he was weak. He had spent his lifetime trying to disprove it. He rather thought his homecoming showed that he was quite capable of managing his emotional attachments, that he was not the weakling his father described. He'd been quite proud of himself, proud of his ability to remain detached.

Last night had proved he was wrong.

He would need to let his wife go, as soon as was possible. She and Celia were shopping today; the Songs arrived tomorrow; the dinner party was in two days. He had made his point to his father. He had reconciled with Len and Celia. Jemma had more than served her purpose - and that did not include warming his bed. He needed to let her go before he made more mistakes like last night.

Last night.

He slammed his fists into the punching bag again.

He had been feeling oddly happy, the first time since they had come. He supposed it was a mix of factors: relief from the fact that Len was fine, that the family businesses were well run. Realization that, perhaps, his long-held anger over Celia had been more about his feeling of betrayal by his brother, rather than lingering affection for her. Relief from the fact that he clearly felt nothing for Celia any more. A genuine cheer at the fact that he and Len had reconciled, and a lessening of the bite of his brother's actions so many years ago. Jemma had not been wrong that Len had been miserable, caught between his love for his older brother and his love for the woman who would become his wife.

And Jemma. The little mouse he had intended to marry had turned out quite differently, and he had been inordinately pleased. He could not take any credit for her intelligence and her warm kindness, but he could still not stop the pleasure he felt when she had taken that tour with him yesterday. She had behaved every inch the society bride his father was so hell-bent on him marrying - but with a warmth and genuine attachment his father no doubt found troubling and vulgar. Not that it was.

Even now, he felt the same warm affection wash over him when he thought of her.

This. Was. _Horrible_.

He had had no intention of touching her; he had told Antoine just as much. His good intentions had gone flying out the window last night, more than once. She had been so lovely and wonderful the whole day; even her genuine distress over Ada that night had been charming to him, making her even more attractive to him. By the end of the day, he had wanted her emotionally and physically, and not just a little.

She, however, had been sweetly and genuinely oblivious, oblivious to her own charm. Grant had learned quickly that Jemma seemed to read well his thoughts regarding everybody else except herself; her sense of perception ended when it came to herself. It had been enchantingly adorable and funny to him, that a woman so in tune to others' problems was so oblivious to her own power. Her warmth and kindness were genuine, and he had found himself lost in it.

She had been that same for him last night in bed as she always was: warm, kind, sweet. He also had discovered a side to her he had not suspected: that, despite being a very quiet lover, she was, in fact, deeply passionate. That little revelation had shredded any remnants of his self-control.

They'd fallen asleep soon after, physically exhausted, with her curled against him and him with one arm and one leg flung protectively around her. He'd awakened early the next morning, before she had; he should have pulled himself out of bed immediately, but he'd stupidly allowed himself the indulgence of watching her sleep. The change in the cadence of his breathing must have alerted, her, however, because she'd started awake, looking around for a moment, completely disoriented. She'd looked up at him for a second, brow furrowed in confusion, before realizing where she was. She'd blinked blearily at him and then smiled, sweet and sleepy. He had been unable to resist having her again.

Grant cursed himself for his lack of restraint. Even though he'd been in command of himself enough to use protection, he knew it wasn't perfect. He'd sworn to himself - even mentioned it to Trip - that he wouldn't do anything to upset his own plans, and a pregnancy would upset his plans greatly. He hadn't held to his resolve for more than a few days before Jemma had shredded it to little pieces - unconsciously, of course. He doubted she had any clue how he felt and the turmoil she was causing him, even after last night.

He slammed his fists into the punching bag again.

After a good half hour, he felt the tension dissipate to a level he could handle. He unwrapped his hands and headed to the nearby washroom, cleaning up. For a long while he just sat on the bench there, leaning his head against the wall.

It was a good thing Jemma was going to be gone all day with Celia. Yes, an excellent thing indeed.

He got up to get his things from the workout room. As he entered, Phil whirled around. "Grant." His voice was slightly surprised and mostly tense. The brothers each had not know the other was there.

"Phil." He did not miss the flinch at the use of this nickname.

Grant thought about walking away. He had reconciled with Len and Celia - wasn't that good enough? And he had not intended to leave Phil, so it wasn't his fault that the last Ward son felt resentful towards and betrayed by him.

Still, his feet were rooted to the ground. He attributed the return of his brotherly feelings to that pestilential wife of his, and coupled with his earlier frustration at her, it just roused him to more irritation. Her prim, prudish little moralizing about family and love and crap. This was all her #$%^ fault. Again.

He really needed to get her out of the house.

Instead, Grant found himself moving towards the punching bag, bracing his shoulder against it. He waved Phil forward.

He half-expected Phil to decline, but habits were hard to break. Grant had been like a father to him - more than their own - for the first twelve years of his life. Phil reluctantly started in on the bag, taking any frustrations he had with his eldest brother out on the bag.

"How's the military?" Grant started, then mentally kicked himself. He was acutely aware of his own lack of conversational ability. To be honest, his wife was not especially adept at choosing conversation topics, either - hers consisted of lots of science and then asking him why he'd fallen out with his family. How did she get those around her talking so earnestly? It seemed her warmth and genuine heart covered a multitude of sins.

Phil said nothing.

"Annapolis must be lovely in the spring." Wow, Grant thought. He was far worse at this than he thought.

Evidently Phil thought the same. "Let's cut the crap. You're making conversation because you should - or perhaps Jemma makes you. Since when are you interested in what I do at all? We share the same parents. That's it."

Ah. So he had been right - Phil had been more deeply hurt by his desertion than he had thought. He had hoped Phil would attach himself to Len and Celia, but it clearly hadn't happened as such. But then he himself had been young - Grant had only just turned twenty-one, Phil's age now, when he had divorced himself from his family.

He didn't know how to address the issue more charmingly, so he took Jemma's tack - just hit it straight on. "Do you know why I left?"

Phil snorted. "Yes. Mom was dead, and there was nobody to keep you here. And Dad wouldn't tolerate you sleeping around with his associates' daughters."

Grant winced. He should have handled his departure better. Explained it to Phil. Twelve-year-olds could handle it.

"And Len might actually have tried to take you on if you'd gone near Celie."

He _certainly_ should have given the pre-teen Phil more credit.

"I loved Celia, yes. I thought she loved me. But I wouldn't have gone near her after she married Len."

Phil scoffed. "You're such a moron," he retorted. "Anybody with eyes could tell she liked Len, and anybody could tell that Len was in hell because he was caught between how much he loved you and how much he loved her. You'd have to be blind as a bat not to see how afraid he was that you'd get her."

Good night. Apparently, Grant thought, his brow furrowing, everybody could see what he couldn't.

Phil wasn't done. "Did it ever occur to you that you don't appeal to Celia? For all your looks and your" - he waved indiscriminately at his face - "cheekbones, the only thing Celie ever wanted was a family. She's brash and outgoing and says things she knows are mildly offensive and she's always wanted somebody who could love her for all that. Why the h-ll do you think that, with her computer know-how, she works with Len's co-op? Did it ever occur to you - as it did to her, very quickly - that you'd be making that aneurysm face" he pointed at Grant's expression "every time she was herself? That she'd have to spend her days trying to figure out how to fit into what you were doing when it wasn't her natural state?"

Phil shook his head. "You keep acting as though you escaped Dad," he said. "But your life in Boston is just a different version of Dad's business here. Every year you just proved that Celia wasn't the one for you. You would've killed her spirit. She knew it. You didn't."

Grant stared, his mouth slightly open. Had he been so blindingly self-deluded? Apparently so.

"Celia was not the main reason I left," he finally said. "Yes, I was close to the edge, but not pushed over it. But there was still you - and Ada."

He decided not to say any more. It was in the past.

"Evidently something pushed you over," Phil replied, in a tone that said he didn't believe any of it, almost daring him to speak.

Grant sighed, then thought over what he would say. There was no easy way about it. After a moment, he spoke. "Our father accused me of stealing. He searched my room while I was gone, found the allegedly stolen item. When I came back from my run, he was standing there with it. Struck me on the face with it, drawing blood."

He could still remember it in vivid detail. It had been just a few days since his mother's death. He had gone for a run, which had ended in him nearly exhausting himself from grief. He had dragged himself back upstairs to his room find his father there - and that silly, innocent part of him had leapt in hope, hope that his father had come to comfort him, that they could grieve together over the loss of Catherine Ward. He had been a fool.

His father had in his hand a diamond necklace, a necklace which Grant's mother had given him a month before she had passed away. She wanted her eldest son's bride to have it; more specifically, she had told him to give it to Celia on their wedding day, as a wedding present from her. His father's expression was frighteningly impassive, and he had refused to believe Grant's explanation for why he had it. John Garrett Ward had then clutched it in his fist as he struck his son across the face.

"You know that most of the time Dad couldn't be bothered to pay any attention to us at all, and that he never laid a hand on any of us," Grant said quietly. "That time, though - after striking me in the face, he whipped me with my own belt, at one point striking me with the metal buckle, enough to draw blood. I took it, even though I was strong enough then to fight him off. When he was done, I left. I could barely move. One of Dad's drivers took me in."

He owed his life to this driver. The man had just left the military, having worked in the Marine Special Operations Command, and had just been honorably discharged due to a disabling injury that left him with a bad leg. He had been serving at the Ward home for only three months when the eldest son had come limping into the kitchen, where the redhead happened to be chatting with the cook. The man had tended to Grant's wounds himself, then had thrown his suitcase into the trunk and driven away with the young man to the nearest hospital. When John Ward had demanded his eldest son return or be cut off, the veteran and his fiancée had married hastily and promptly taken Grant into her tiny apartment.

"Mark Lockwood," Phil mumbled in realization. He was staring at his brother in horror.

"Our father called Columbia, told them I was cut off and he'd cut them off if they let me return to school in the fall," Grant continued. "Then he made public his displeasure with Mark, and after that, nobody would hire the man, for fear of offending the great John Ward," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Mark did odd jobs and drove a d-mn taxi until the service let him go from that, too. His wife was a young teacher then, but she supported us on her starting-level elementary teacher salary. They even bought my medical insurance."

It had been a long six months in New York - had felt like six years. Grant had initially insisted on helping Mark out on odd jobs, to help pay for his own upkeep. Then the society pages had printed a photo of him working at a site, and after that, the offers for jobs dwindled (no doubt due to calls by John Ward). The makeshift family together decided it would be safest if Grant stayed inside in the Lockwoods' apartment, where curiosity seekers and his father's spies couldn't see him. He had nearly gone stir-crazy. He learned to cook and to clean those six months, trying to help out the couple who had taken him in. Columbia had also let him take an online course surreptitiously, but John Ward had always been a multimillion-dollar donor and the school couldn't risk cutting off its other students for one.

"We had to leave New York, go to Texas to escape our father's reach," the older Ward continued. "Houston was far away enough that Mark could find regular employment befitting his skills. Rice was far away enough for them to agree to my gamble: that I would repay all my tuition if they would allow me to transfer from Columbia and attend for free to finish my degree." He had rushed, cramming the rest of his classes into one year in order to graduate on time. He then repaid his tuition to Rice University and more - he was deeply grateful to his alma mater. And he was even more so to Mark and his wife.

Grant was quiet for a moment. He breathed in and out, sighing. His tone softened, ever so slightly. "I did not speak lightly when I told our father I would leave. I know I was leaving Ada - an infant he refused to see - and I knew I would have to leave you. I know you needed me."

He had been torn apart by his decision not to press charges. He had lived in fear of what would happen to his siblings. In the three years they lived in Texas, as Grant finished school and began his businesses, the former MARSOC sergeant had flown to New York three times a year, on his own and his wife's dime, to check up on his brothers and his sister and ensure they were well and safe. When they had moved to Boston, the redhead had driven down to New York. Grant had circumstantial evidence that Lockwood had privately (and physically) threatened his father with exposure and worse should there be a whisper of child abuse. Between Celia's New York cop father and Mark, Grant had been able to ascertain the others' safety, to ensure that his father had not done to his siblings what he had done to him.

But Phil did not need to know that.

Grant stopped speaking, then realized with some horror why Phil was saying nothing. "I didn't say this to - it's all over, Phil. You and Ada were safe. I am home, now, too."

Phil kept blinking, his eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. He punched at the bag half-heartedly, putting it between them. After a couple minutes, Grant quietly let him go. No, a military officer would not want to be seen crying over something like this. At least Phil now knew that Grant had not abandoned them easily, nor for his own pleasures.

~| tw |~

Jemma awoke an hour and a half after her husband had left. She was tired from the day before, but she was not used to sleeping in, so when her internal clock woke her up again, she stayed awake this time.

She could still smell his scent on the pillow to her, and she felt - she didn't know. It must be pleasant, she thought a little wistfully, to wake up to this every day - to be actually married. Last night, her husband had been kind and gentle, words she would not have normally associated with him. He had also been passionate, something she had guessed long before: his stoicism was the emotional equivalent of scars, hiding deep wounds and searing hurt. He had been vulnerable with her, the first time she'd witnessed it since meeting him. She had been given a chance to see what she was sure was her husband's true self.

But there was no point in thinking on any of this. She was not permanently married to Grant Ward, and she did not believe she wanted to be. This family had, as Celia once muttered under her breath, "more baggage than Samsonite". Jemma had her own family - one with significantly fewer issues, if one did not count a huge debt. Tomorrow the Songs would be here, and hopefully she would have served out her contract. She would ask her husband when she would be allowed to leave.

She would go to Idaho, to Penny and the children. She would pretend she had lost her job - though she doubted that would fool any but the smallest. Penny would see through it right away, and she would tell them the whole story.

At that point, she knew, Penny would begin yelling, and then she'd email Leo so he could yell at her, too, over Skype. But it would be done. And Jemma had always been able to persuade her brother. She was not the older sibling for nothing.

She went down to breakfast and was relieved to see Grant was not there. She did not quite know how to face him yet. Theirs was not a normal marriage, anyhow, even if they had consummated it rather cheerfully the night before. Phillip Ward was, there, however, and he stood politely when she entered. "Good morning," she greeted warmly. "I should have guessed that you would be up already, being a military officer."

She was rewarded with a cautious but genuine smile. He had a lovable face, Jemma decided. He was not the magazine-handsome of his oldest brother, or the geeky chic of his next brother, but he had the boy-next-door look, which was all the more adorable when he smiled. Each Ward brother was devastatingly handsome in his own way. "I normally try to work out downstairs in the morning. I hope you'll excuse me for looking like this."

"Oh! Did you see Grant? He normally runs in the morning, but this morning I believe he muttered something about the punching bag."

"Yes, we worked out a little together." Phil's voice became guarded.

"And did you talk?" Jemma asked as she buttered her toast, her voice both full of warmth but with slight chastisement. "I've never met a family whose members did more staring than talking on important issues. Have you forgiven him for leaving you when you were a boy?"

"He told you," Phil said, his tone wary.

"No." She smiled gently. "I know only that something terrible happened and nobody will talk about it, which is a shame because it won't be fixed until then. You did love him though, didn't you?"

There was a long silence, and then he nodded. "I saw him like a father. He could do no wrong in my eyes, even though I knew he had some faults," he admitted, with a small smile that made his eyes crinkle a little. "Like arrogance."

She smiled, chuckling softly. "I believe sometimes people who look like your brother and have the wealth and the level of responsibility he does tend towards a bit of arrogance. It would take a saint not to."

He smiled at that, and the two of them started eating. She did not notice that her young brother-in-law was still watching her until he said, his voice very soft, "Do you love him?"

She was startled, her cup rattling indecorously against the saucer for a moment.

"I'm sorry. It's not my business." He waved it off.

"You worry for him," she replied automatically. "A brother should." But her? How should she answer? She and Grant had committed to this lie. "To answer your question, yes. Even though some days his reticence makes me want to shake him. He can be so daft sometimes!" she huffed, almost to herself, then realized how it might sound to her husband's brother.

Phil, though, laughed genuinely at that - and smiled boyishly. Jemma relaxed. It would a lucky girl on the receiving end of that smile. After a moment, he grew quiet, and then said quietly, "I thought you were some golddigger. I was so angry with Grant, but even then, I was so angry with you on his behalf. I thought you had fooled him terribly. I was furious with you and furious with him for being fooled and then dragging us all into it." He looked ashamed. "I misjudged everything so badly. I hope you'll forgive me. I like you a lot. You're wonderful for him."

"Oh." Jemma looked down at her plate, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. She blinked rapidly, then pulled her napkin to give her shaking hands something to do. "I'm - I'm sorry. I'm being silly."

"No." He passed her a box of tissues from the side counter. "You're not. We've been treating you terribly - though my father seems to be warming up to you - really, actually warming up to you, not that fake stuff he normally projects. You've been better than us all, treating us civilly when we haven't done the same for you."

She dabbed at her eyes, wiping away what tears she could catch. "I - I believe I've...I've had enough breakfast." She had eaten half a piece of toast, and her tea was unfinished.

He looked distressed and quickly got up as she rose to leave. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - "

"No, no." She gave him a watery smile from the doorway. "No, I'm quite all right. You stay."

She rushed back to her room - thankfully, it was empty - to lick her wounds. Phil had meant what he said to be kind; he had meant to apologize. He thought she cried because he had been kind to her when they had all treated her so badly. It wasn't. It was what else he had said: "I thought you were some golddigger."

His words had ripped at her. Phil did not know the state of his eldest brother's marriage, and he didn't know how correct his first impression was. She _was_ a golddigger: she had married a man she had strongly disliked simply for what money and creature comforts he could provide her. That was the very definition of the word. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet; a fortune hunter, even one euphemistically called a temporary wife, was still a fortune hunter. And Jemma Fitzsimmons most certainly was a fortune hunter.

A golddigger.

* * *

She was still feeling quite depressed when it came time to go to Celia's. Seeing that she had eaten nothing, Phil had had the kitchen send up more breakfast for her. It had the tea she liked brewed in a little pot with another cup and saucer, and more toast and jam and butter and some sausage and eggs and fruit. He had even left a note, apologizing again for upsetting her at breakfast and apologizing on top of that for thinking so terribly of her.

The young man's clear distress and his kind gesture had made her feel even worse, but there was no way for Phil to know that without finding out why she and Grant had married. She left him a note under the door to reassure him she was not the slightest bit angry. If she faced him now, he wouldn't believe that she didn't blame him; he'd continue to believe her subdued face was his fault.

Oh, how she hated lying. It just made a mess of everything.

She tried to set aside her own feelings and put on a brave face for Ada, giving her a big smile. It was a beautiful day, and the little girl was beaming - and she deserved more than Jemma's sad mood. The woman tried as hard as she could to put Phil's words out of her mind and focus on the child in front of her.

Celia had allowed her sons to call Ada that morning. All Jemma could hear was Clark in the background, half-shouting and half-singing 'Baby rabbits!' repeatedly while his older brother tried to talk to Ada over the noise. Apparently their pet rabbit had just had a litter last night and there were baby rabbits everywhere, and didn't she want to come to see them?

Ada had gotten permission to spend the day with her playmates. She had chattered happily, putting on her favorite jumper and beaming at Jemma. The woman made a conscious effort to focus on Ada, and she felt her own mood lifting as she watched the nine-year-old. Ada talked non-stop about the rabbit kits all the way down to the house, and by the time they reached there, Jemma's mood had improved.

"Come see the new dictators of the house," Celia had joked when they arrived. Sure enough, the two boys were fussing over the hutch, waiting on the rabbits hand and foot with what the children _thought_ they would need, rather than, perhaps, what the rabbits actually needed.

Celia settled her young sister-in-law with her two sons, leaving the housekeeper to watch over all four children. The mistress of the house then grabbed her purse and fairly ran out of the house, laughing as she pulled Jemma along.

The shopping trip was dizzying. A driver took them into the city, and they bypassed all the major stores and headed straight for boutiques and designers. Jemma was well aware that she wouldn't have been treated the same - even if it were subtle - if she hadn't been introduced as a Ward. Even when she had been a comfortably middle-class Englishwoman, she had never had this amount of wealth - until now. Phil's words rung loudly in her ears.

Still, trying to be sad when Celia was around was like trying to stay dry in a hurricane. It wasn't long before her boisterous new friend had her laughing.

Her sister-in-law insisted on a frighteningly large array of clothing for every occasion, and all Jemma could think of was what Grant would say when he saw the bill for clothes for his very temporary wife. She managed to talk her new friend down a little bit, although Celia kept muttering under her breath about getting killed (metaphorically, Jemma supposed). After the third store, Jemma discovered with horror that her shopping partner had purchased five sets of lingerie for her, too. The other woman had just laughed long and heartily - and unapologetically - at her beet-red face.

"Trust me, there's no way Grant will say boo," Celia grinned, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Jemma thought he would say a big, rather loud boo, but she didn't know how to tell Celia that without revealing the actual state of her marriage.

Right before lunch, they stopped to get dresses for the formal dinner in two days. Celia's had already been made, and she was just there to pick it up. It was a bright coral - a color that reflect her personality, Jemma thought fondly - with a two-inch border of silver thread and pearl embroidery across the high neck - and all the way down the low, open dip in the back. It flowed down to the knee and was paired with silver, high-heeled sandals. She looked brilliant in it, like a glamorous movie star. It fit Celia and her personality perfectly, though Jemma herself would have felt terribly uncomfortable in it.

Celia seemed to realize this, too. They headed to a different store, and soon Jemma was looking at a dizzying array of dresses and cloths. Even though the whole store was more staid and conservative than the one which made Celia's dress, it took awhile for them to settle on something remotely like what Jemma would feel comfortable wearing. She finally selected a cloth colored in a deep eggplant purple, which met with hesitant approval.

"I like for winter," the manager said slowly, his eyes narrowed as he studied the material.

"Too dark for summer?" Celia said, eyeing the fabric herself. She nodded in agreement with the manager. "Would be a great winter dress, though."

"Yes. Better as winter dress. Mikado finish."

"Oooh! We'll order a second dress and second design!" Celia looked excited and the manager beamed.

Jemma moaned softly before she could stop herself. She turned red when they both looked at her.

At that, the manager quickly backed off, clearly distressed by the fact that his client was unhappy. He said, "If Mrs. Ward does not wish it - "

"Oh, that." Celia waved it off. "Jem's afraid of costing her husband too much money."

Of course she was, Jemma thought. She would not be around for winter. Her husband would not want to pay for a winter dress for a non-existent wife.

"But if Mrs. Ward - " the manager started, uncomfortably caught between the two women.

"This Mrs. Ward," Celia interrupted, wrapping an arm around the other woman, "is Mrs. _Grant_ Ward."

The manager blinked in surprise. "Oh!" A hand, waved dismissively, as his worried face smoothed out. Celia took it - no doubt correctly, Jemma sighed to herself - to mean that she had won the manager over to her side. "I see," he said knowingly. Apparently everybody knew better than herself just how rich Grant Douglas Ward was, but all a distraught Jemma could see were more dollar signs ringing up. Her husband was going to be jailed for uxoricide right after he got the bill.

Celia just grinned triumphantly at her.

"I have something," the manager said suddenly. "It look similar, but different color. The lady who ordered - she wants it no more. May be a little long for you - she is taller - but we can tailor."

Some minutes later, the manager reappeared with the dress in question. It was shantung silk, in the palest blue Jemma had ever seen. It was a strapless sheath, with a with a flat front skirt. There was silver embroidery along the top of the dress, delicate but quite visible. The small, short-sleeved bolero, made of the same material and embroidered with the same thread and pattern on the edges, just covered her shoulders and the top of the arms in small cap sleeves, leaving the neck bare and open.

Jemma had never been vain. Still, she couldn't help a small gasp when she saw the dress - it was beautiful. The manager beamed.

It turned out to be a tad loose and a tad long, hitting right below Jemma's knees, rather than at it. They pinned the back and made other adjustments before having her step in front of the mirror again. Celia grinned and laughed, then asked her, "Do you like it?"

She blushed and her new friend clapped once in delight.

"And you know what you can wear with these!" Celia exclaimed. "Nude pumps, us short girls' best friend!"

Jemma had never wanted to be a princess, especially. But she felt like one.

Their shopping done, they took in a late lunch. It was well past the lunch hour, and Celia left their things with the driver before giving directions about where to pick them up. She then took Jemma down into the Lower East Side by subway. They pulled out in front of a small deli, which was bustling. When Celia walked in, she was greeted with cheers. "Look who's here to see us!"

Jemma smiled at the boisterous reception that her new friend got, and warmly greeted those to whom she was introduced. The two women were given a private booth near the back, and when their food came in, it included two bowls of Manhattan clam chowder.

"You haven't lived," the cook replied, "until you have real clam chowder. Not that wimpy white stuff served in New England."

Jemma laughed at that as the man winked at Celia. "See? We'll convert her yet," he crowed as he left.

"This is a lovely place," Jemma commented as she dug into her meal. It was homey and adorable. The food was hearty and filling. "How did you find it?"

"I used to live here," Celia replied with a shrug.

"Here?"

"In a van around the corner. I won it from a moron in a bet and didn't even have a license to drive it. Martin let me ride on their wireless, so I was parked out there in the alley."

Jemma blinked. "That's awful. I'm so sorry to hear it."

"It's fine," she waved it off. "Look, it's really fine. It had its perks. Living alone means nobody to worry about, for one." She shrugged. "You know how that feels."

Jemma smiled weakly. Her little white lie kept reappearing. When her husband's aunt had asked if she had family, she had been caught off guard; she lied quite suddenly and said she was an only child. What they thought of her she didn't care, but she could not bear the looks of disdain for her siblings if the Wards knew about how impoverished they were. Leo and Penny had sacrificed themselves for the good of the family; Jemma could not allow anybody to think contemptuously of them. So she had lied - and now it was coming back around.

But no, she could not honestly say she understood Celia's comment; she had always had family. Yes, being alone would mean she did not have the worries of her family on her shoulders. But being alone would mean she did not have those joys, either. She was not sure she would trade one for the other.

"How did you come to meet Len?" Jemma changed the subject.

"Oh, how did I marry into one of the posh New York families?" Celia laughed. "It's a really long story."

"You will tell it, won't you? I'd love to hear it."

Celia shrugged. "I started when I hacked the wrong guy. He went to the police, and they traced the IP here. I couldn't let Martin take the fall for me, so I spoke up, figuring that juvie rules would mean the law went easier on me, anyhow. That's how I met Officer Coulson; he was assigned to the case. After that, he used to come check up on me. And after a year, he and his wife adopted me - most likely close to one of the best times of my life."

"Grant said your father is a New York City policeman."

"Yup. He was, anyhow. He works for the FBI now - Agent Coulson. So does my mother."

"So, that's how you became Celia Coulson."

Celie laughed. "Actually, there's a story to that, too. For as far back as I can remember, I had lived at one of the orphanages here in New York City. The nuns gave me the name Mary Sue Poots." She made a face, and Jemma laughed. "I complained endlessly then, but they didn't have to take me in. And they made me go to school, which in retrospect was a good thing, even if I hated it."

She shrugged. "I left when I was fourteen. Decided to pick my own name. At fourteen, trust me, calling yourself a non-traditional name like 'Skye' with an 'e' seemed so brilliantly grown-up and hipster at the same time."

Jemma tried to school the surprise off her face, but was clearly unsuccessful when the other woman laughed. "Oh, it gets even better. When Officer Coulson asked my name, I said, 'Skye with an "e" - no last name, like Cher.'" Celia shook her head, chuckling. "After I got to know him, he pointed out that my name was not helping my anonymity as a hacker. There was only one Skye-no-last-name in the NYPD database."

Jemma laughed.

Celia just shook her head. "Ah, the naïveté of youth." She sipped her drink for a moment. "When the Coulsons adopted me, we looked through different names - I wanted a new name, to show my new start. Mom suggested Celia. It's from the Latin for - "

" - 'sky'," Jemma said, catching on. "That's a lovely choice."

"I'm not sure I'm totally a 'Celia' - I believe perhaps I should be drinking tea with my pinky sticking out - oh, don't make that face!" Celia laughed at Jemma's expression. "But I believe it works well for me. 'Celia Coulson' had a brilliant ring to it, and the name had a tie to my past. It also works with my married name." She made a face. "Just imagine if I had kept the name 'Skye' and then married Len."

Jemma paused for a moment, then laughed. "Oh, dear. I could see the society pages having quite a bit of fun with that one."

"Never mind the society pages! The Ward boys thought it was hilarious." Celia rolled her eyes in playful exasperation. "When Len and I first started seeing each other, Phil would make airplane liftoff noises whenever he caught us in a PDA. Just last year, while I was still pregnant with Catherine, he told Ada we were going to name the baby girl 'Rain'. She was so disappointed when Len and I told her we were naming the baby after her mother."

"How did you meet Len?"

"John and Dad are old college classmates. When Mom and Dad moved to New York, the two of them got together every few months, and after I was adopted, I'd come with Dad. I believe I scared Len when I first met him." She chuckled fondly, and that made Jemma smile, too. "Though it was pretty obvious John wasn't too enthusiastic about his sons spending time with me. I was offended at first, but the more I see of what Len grew up in, the less I want to be involved. If it weren't for Len, I wouldn't be here."

"'More baggage than Samsonite'?" Jemma quoted back to her, smiling.

Celia laughed, then sobered. "It's not just this family. It's also the lifestyle: the social manners, the rules, the proper way to do things - it's endless! I never saw a rule I didn't want to break simply because it was a rule. It makes John nuts, and I know Victoria barely tolerates me. They only put up with me because I make Len happy."

"I'm sure they can't dislike you that much," Jemma exclaimed.

Celia snorted in disagreement. "I'm entertaining, I suppose, but Drill Sergeant Hand has actually given up on teaching me the social stuff." She shrugged. "Len doesn't mind, though. He lets me be myself. It helps that he isn't the public face of the family the way Grant is - even when Grant was out on his own, he was always watched by the public. Len isn't; we can go out and not have photos taken. Len's also fiercely protective of our privacy, making sure we stay out of the limelight - I know he does it partly to protect me."

"Grant likes the publicity?" Jemma didn't believe so.

"Oh, no. But he's all - " she waggled her fingers dismissively. " - responsible and stuff. He'll stand in front of the cameras because he has to, he'll follow orders because he has to. Too serious for me. You know, for our honeymoon, Len and I just traveled Eastern Europe with our backpacks for six weeks, doing whatever. You'd be amazed at the things Len can do with his hands. It wasn't the traveling, you know - it was, for me, just having a chance to be free from any duty. Len could appreciate that. Grant, for all he talks about freedom, would be unhappy if he abandoned his responsibilities. He'd feel guilty. It's too ingrained for him."

Celia squeezed her hand. "You have no idea how glad Len is that Grant married for love, not duty, and that he found somebody who loves him for himself, not his money. Len and I love that he picked you."

Jemma smiled weakly.

* * *

Grant had not seen his wife all day. He had gone down to Len and Celia's house to see Len, only to find Ada there, much to his surprise. She had been excused from that morning's piano practice, he was told. When he'd asked how, she simply said, "Jemmie asked Daddy if I could come play with the baby bunnies."

Good night. His father had allowed it simply because Jemma had asked?

He had then spent the rest of the morning with Len, going over the agriculatural co-op's financial circumstances and how to improve it. He had then returned back to the main house and spent the afternoon looking over some of the family's other financial deals as his father, looking gray and unwell, had sat nearby.

By late afternoon, he was twitchy. He looked over the records for his own businesses in Boston, then through the charitable donations. He thought about it, then emailed Mark Lockwood to being a search for and a report on the Fitzgeralds' maid, the one Jemma had defended and for whom she had lost her job. Jemma would be happy to know where the maid had ended up, and after seeing the report, Grant would decide how to proceed. Let James Fitzgerald learn to pick on somebody his own financial size.

After that, he had nothing to do and was left to his own devices. His face must have looked murderous, because Phil quietly avoided him and Ada just stared, wide-eyed. Grant was having trouble pinpointing what was wrong with him until he returned to his rooms before dinner and found a few bags neatly stacked in the corner. Jemma was home, he thought. His sudden improvement of mood revealed why he had been so restless during the day: he had _missed_ her.

This was _not_ a welcome revelation.

The face he turned on her when she entered from the bathroom was thunderous; he certainly did not look like a husband who was happy his wife was home. She mistook the reason he was wearing 'aneurysm face', as Phil put it.

"I am sorry," she said, without even greeting him. "I know you like me in my own clothes. I know you were roped into buying things for me. But I was, too, you must admit. I did not want to go on this shopping trip, but Celia refused to take no for an answer."

He stared at her for a moment, not quite understanding what his wife was apologizing for. "Like your regular clothes?" he managed. "I'd burn them if I could."

She blinked, now truly baffled. "But if - " she trailed off, confused.

It was almost adorable, Jemma's complete obliviousness to the emotional turmoil she was inadvertently putting him through. She thought he was upset about her spending his money. She _actually_ thought he was upset about her spending his money.

Of course, if Grant admitted out loud that he was mad because he had just discovered the horrifying fact that he _missed_ having his wife around - well, that sounded completely idiotic, even in his head. The whole thing just made him even madder, and his tone came out harsh. "Is that all you bought?" he asked, pointing at the bags.

"...that ALL I bought?" Jemma repeated him, still confused. "I didn't believe..." Her voice got small.

He rummaged through the bags. "Celia didn't get half the things I asked her to get for you."

She was stunned. "She was supposed to get more? But - " then she blinked. "You asked her to get me all those things?" Her voice was astonished, and no wonder: this was most likely the first time in history a husband was mad at his wife for not spending more of his money on clothes.

He was not going to mention this little incident to Trip, Grant decided. It would just result in the man was rolling on the floor laughing uproariously.

"I told you that part of the agreement was me providing you all the things you needed as my wife," he reminded her. "This is part of that. Did you get a gown for the dinner?"

She blinked. "I thought you wanted me to wear my own clothes for that," she said, her voice small and sheepish, hopeless befuddlement all over her face. "I thought that was the whole point."

There was that. He had told her that, in short, he had wanted her shabbily dressed to embarrass his father. No doubt her confusion stemmed from his sudden one-hundred-eighty degree change of mind. He couldn't expect her to keep up with how quickly his emotions changed; he wasn't even sure himself exactly what he was feeling at the moment. "Do you have a dress?" he repeated, this time softening his tone to a more placid one.

"They will deliver it tonight," she replied, still clearly baffled. "They had to make a few alterations, but it will be sent tonight."

"Good."

For some reason, it was suddenly important to Grant that Jemma not be humiliated the night of the formal dinner. Before, that had been the whole point - to humiliate his father by presenting a humiliating daughter-in-law. Now, however, he did not like the thought of people seeing her for less than she was. He knew some people would be unable to see past her outward appearance to see his wife for the marvelous person she was; that was something simple his money could fix.

Not that she cared too much about being snubbed, he thought. She had admitted that the insults stung briefly, but she had carried on with the same warmth and brilliance she had always had. He was sure she could have weathered the dinner with ease, bearing everybody's disdain and pity with a classy, warm gentility. Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward was far stronger than he had given her credit for.

"I see your father's medical records," she said softly, looking at the file on the table. "May I take a look?"

"Please." Grant waved at the unnervingly large folder. "You could explain some of it to me."

And so she did. She was not a doctor, but she understood enough of the procedures and the drugs used to be able to make sense of it for her husband. The picture was grim, he had to admit.

"I believe his doctor might be right, that he will not last the summer," Jemma said softly. "I am sorry, Grant. We should do what we can to make him comfortable, put his mind at ease."

"'We'?" His tone was sharp.

"He bowed to you first," she said. "He extended a hand to you first. He wanted to see you settled. He wanted to discuss all this with you. He wanted your and your family's futures secured. You can stay a little longer - no doubt your businesses can run in your absence. You can make his last days peaceful."

"Let me remind you," Grant said brusquely, "that doctor's estimates are just estimates. My father has defied them before. What if he lives another five years? You want to stick around that long, pretend we have a model love marriage? And you want to know what he wants? Same thing he wanted from my mother - children. He'll want grandchildren from you. You want to renegotiate that contract?"

She was quiet - and blushing. Suddenly it struck him - she was alone.

"So, is this your plan?" his tone was biting. "Get yourself a family, since you have none? Because trust me," he leered at her, "I'd take great pleasure in producing grandchildren for my father. It would hardly be a burden for me. But I'm telling you large families are not worth it, since I'm sure it's something you clearly know _so_ much about."

There was a long silence. He regretted where this conversation had turned - regretted his words. Regretted his tone. Everything about it. He had missed her, and in his anger it had come to this. "I am sorry," he muttered. "I hurt you."

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes large with tears. How had he ever thought her plain? He hated how discomfited he felt, how much like a heel he felt. He did not want to care about somebody else's feelings. When was the last time he had apologized? And that many times to the same person?

"You have a father," she said softly. "And brothers and a sister and nephews and a niece. Tomorrow they might not be here. Circumstances may separate you permanently. You have been given a second chance, although life rarely offers them. Do not pass it by."

* * *

He escorted her down to dinner, both of them thoughtful and quiet. She was soon roused to her normal warmth by a chattery Ada, who apparently had missed her as much as her eldest brother had but demonstrated it much more appropriately. The little girl talked endlessly about the rabbit kits, much to his own amusement, and Jemma interacted with her in a wonderfully charming way: asking her questions, exclaiming over Ada's stories, and even using the chance to teach her about the animal. His eyes dancing with quiet mirth, Phil had teased Ada terribly (he liked rabbit in a brandy sauce, he claimed; Ada was horrified); Jemma had hushed him with playfully stern looks. Even John Garrett Ward seemed pleasantly and genuinely amused by the whole thing.

For the first time, Grant wondered if he was denying Jemma more than she was gaining. She seemed to hold family to be very important, and she loved children. Yet, for all her money, she would have no children, not by him - at least, if she wasn't pregnant already from the previous night. Even if she divorced him after the agreed-upon ten years, it would be a lonely ten years. In addition, she was so good with children - warm and loving and giving. She was the type of person everybody wanted as a mother. It seemed heartless to deny her children, and just as heartless to deny a child the chance to have her as a mother.

If Jemma chose to adopt, he had to consider his options. He would not be directly responsible, but he knew it would nag incessantly at him. A child deserved a father and a mother, and he would not allow a child of hers to be as emotionally abandoned by a father as he had been. He could not shirk his responsibility to her child. He just wasn't sure he could be as good a parent as she would.

* * *

By the end of the evening, Grant learned something entirely new about his wife.

He had already figured out that she was a warm and generous person, and that she had an impatience for his family - impatience with how unwilling they were to talk to each other. She was an inveterate fixer. She had love for everybody, regardless of age, and children responded quickly to her affection. She was intelligent, a former Cambridge student in the sciences.

And now, for something entirely new: Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward was _incredibly_ competitive.

As was he.

Apparently Old Maid could be played like it was at the poker world championship. His father had merely laughed - a genuine laugh, rather than his normally chilled one - and had been chuckling as he headed up to bed. Phil had looked incredibly amused. Ada was a little startled, but Jemma's competitive spirit did not drown out her affectionate one, and the little girl was still on the receiving end of that.

Phil's suggestion of Scrabble was a set-up for even worse. The twinkle in the younger man's eye told Grant that this innocent proposition might have been deliberate, and that his easy-going, kind-hearted second brother might also have a devious streak.

It hadn't taken long for Jemma to put down "leukaemia," and that set off a round of arguing. Ada looked a little concerned; Phil looked quite diverted. Jemma then said "OK" was not a real word, and acquiesced rather ungraciously when even the Oxford English Dictionary allowed it. (Jemma muttered something uncomplimentary about Oxford under her breath.) "Analyse," which used the "s" already there and then used the letters in front to block Grant's use of "defenestration," set off another round of arguing. Ada was looking between them, wide-eyed and worried, and seemed consoled only when she saw Phil grinning and barely containing his laughter, looking relaxed and highly entertained.

This was now best of three, with a game apiece (she'd made a face when he used "epicentre" to block her; yeah, two could play that game) and the board nearly filled as this third game wound down.

Grant sat back with a satisfied smile. The game was close - he was leading, with Jemma second - well, Jemma and Ada on one team. Phil was close behind. Given how packed the board was already, he was sure he had it locked up.

Jemma whispered in Ada's ear, and the little girl set out two letters, then looked at her, then filled in the others.

He blinked. A-G-L-E-T. "That's not a word in our language!" he blurted before he could stop himself. Good night, he was a 29-year-old multimillionnaire, and he couldn't control himself when his wife bested him at Scrabble.

She made a noise of outrage, looking at him as if she were mortally offended. "'Our language'! 'Our language'! Do you mean the _English_ language?! First spoken in _England_?!"

Phil lost it. He laughed so hard he fell over.

"You're supposed to be on my side," Grant grumbled at him. Still, he had to admit, his own irritation at losing took a backseat to the dopey part of his mind which deliberately noted how adorable his wife looked when her hackles were up. He wore a pinched expression of aggravation, retorting, "If we're making up words, why don't you just add a 'u' while we're at it? Or change that 'a' to an 'e'?"

He nearly laughed out loud himself when her mouth fell open in indignation. "Making up words - !" She pointed at the dictionary, never taking her eyes off of him, challenge issued. "Ada, sweetheart, will you look up the word, please?"

The little girl pulled down the dictionary from the table and climbed back onto her spot next to Jemma. She laid the dictionary across her lap and carefully flipped to the A's. Grant watched as Jemma patiently pointed out the two heading words at the top of each page, signaling the first and last words on the page, and gave Ada the time she needed to carefully navigate the dictionary herself.

When she found it, she read carefully. "'Ag-let. noun. The plain or' - " she pointed at the next word, looking up at Jemma, who murmured what seemed to be instructions in her ear. "'Or - nah - men - ornamen - tal tag covering the ends of a lace or point.'"

"These," Jemma said, flicking the little plastic tags at the ends of her shoelaces.

Ada's eyes lit up in understanding. Then she beamed with a secretly delighted grin. "We win."

Jemma held his gaze with an indignantly challenging one of her own. Without looking down at Ada, she held up her palm for a high-five, which the little girl enthusiastically gave, giggling all the while. Jemma tilted her head at him, giving him a dare-you smile.

Phil started laughing again.

~| tw |~

It was soon Ada's bedtime. Grant and Phil watched, amused, as Jemma easily withstood the little girl's attempts at begging and puppy-dog eyes and ordered her upstairs to bed. As the two left, the brothers cleaned up the games in mutual, quiet silence, and Phil picked up both the cards and the game and put them away. He headed for the door to leave, and then turned back to look at his brother. "I like Jemma a lot," he said simply. "She is good for you in so many ways." With that, he left, leaving his eldest brother staring after him.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review!

The hostess lesson thing was from something I'd read (and now can't find!).

* * *

That next morning, Grant awoke to the feeling of dread - a feeling of impending doom about to fall.

He spent the morning oddly contemplative. At least he hadn't done something idiotic like yesterday, where he snapped at his wife when and because he'd come to the horrifying realization that he actually liked spending time with her. (Oh, the horrors!) Today he returned her cheerful smiles and greetings, and Phil and Ada hadn't avoided him, so he wasn't wearing aneurysm face. But more than once Jemma had laid a hand on his arm and asked him gently if he was all right, those big eyes looking up at him, full of concern. Still, he counted the morning a victory in the civility department: rather be pensive than illogically mad.

He had flatly ignored his own father for the past nine years, including requests to return home. He had once publicly humiliated a woman when he'd found she was in league with his father: his father had paid her to go Boston to try to attract him and to spy on him. He, of course, just recently brought a bride home specifically for the reason of pissing off his father by refusing even a formal introduction to Mae Song, whom he barely remembered from years ago. He was going to get his moment of _schadenfreude_ at the look on Cole Song's face when Jemma was introduced as his wife. Yes, Grant Ward had won his war with his father over his spouse.

Still, he could not help but feel nagging guilt at catching Jemma in the middle of his mess - even though that had been the entire point.

~| tw |~

His father had decided that, when he greeted the Songs, Grant should be present. The rest of the family would appear at dinner.

Grant refused to be dictated to. "Jemma will accompany me."

"Jemma will wait for us in the library," his father compromised.

He felt oddly nervous as he waited with his father and his aunt in the foyer, having been notified that the Songs were pulling up the long driveway. He felt guilty and embarrassed and a myriad of other things that ran from irritation to remorse. For the latter, and all associated feelings, he placed the blame firmly on his wife. She had, in her last few days with him, made him feel the whole range of emotions he had thought long buried. And as irritated as he was with her for making him feel all these things again, he was glad she was waiting in the library.

The door opened.

Cole Song was much the same as Grant remembered. He was tall - not quite as tall as Grant, but just as tall as his father. His wife was small, but she was just as commanding a presence as her husband; it was not hard to see how she ran a boardroom. Hu Juan and Victoria Hand were peas in a pod.

Their daughter had grown up, and she seemed to inherit much of the same steely stoicism her parents had. He had only remembered Mae Song from fifteen years prior, when her parents had made a short trip to the Ward home; she had been a baby-faced child who played surprisingly well with Phil. The next time the Songs had come to the house, Grant had been with his mother in Europe, and then his mother had died and he had left home. Mae was small - not much taller than Jemma - and trim, but it was clear she had developed into an adult, with a woman's figure. Her hair was a deep, shiny black, and it flowed down her shoulders.

Her dark eyes saw him and widened just the slightest bit. Her expression remained impassive.

It was suddenly clear to the Ward heir why his father had wanted this introduction. He wanted a proper wife for his eldest son, and Mae Song would never say anything outrageous in public, as Celia might - in fact, Mae Song would never talk at all. Yet Mae and Celia looked quite similar: both had long, dark hair and large, dark eyes and were similar in height and figure. His father had assumed his son had a type and searched through business partners specifically for this introduction.

Grant was roused to unusual resentment. He was not some idiot child. He was perhaps even more upset, he thought, because he did not know if he would have been able to stand up to his father if he had returned home alone. Grant knew how to take orders, and he had no doubt Mae Song was raised to do the same. Even if they did not marry, he and Mae most likely would have at least attempted a go at a relationship just to please their parents. He would have been unable to resist his father's wishes, even now, had he not acted preemptively.

The only reason his father was not pushing the issue was because of the person awaiting them in the library. It was scandal enough for the prodigal son to bring home a new, penniless, and shabby bride. It would be an even juicier scandal should his family not accept her. It would be the height of scandal if said eldest son dumped his new bride just days after his wedding.

He did not like how well he knew what his father thought. He was, perhaps, his father's son. He wasn't sure he knew what type of person he would be without his father's shadow.

Grant wondered how his little mouse - but then, he had been deeply mistaken in that, hadn't he? - had such a clear-eyed view of who she was: what she wanted, what she thought, what she was willing to say. Jemma was so comfortable in her own skin, so comfortable with who she was.

He had much to learn from her.

"Cole," his father greeted with his normal, booming smile and open arms - a façade he had cultivated well. "You made it! I'm so glad to see you, Hu Juan. And Mae, you look lovely as always."

They greeted him, and then Victoria, with the same pomp and spirit.

"Ah, Grant," Cole greeted with a big, anticipatory smile. "Good to see you, son."

Grant acknowledged him stiffly. "Sir," he said, clearly. 'Son.' Ha. He had no biological connection to this other man, as he had to John Garrett Ward. He had no emotional connection to him, either; Mark Lockwood had been more of a father to him in the last ten years than either of the two men before him. The use of the term was a pleasantry meant to stake a claim - not unlike when his father had called Jemma "hon" in his presence.

"I believe you have my met my wife," Cole Song continued in that already proprietary tone, as if claiming Grant like staking out one's land. "But as for Mae, it has been a long time since we've seen you here."

Grant gave a stiff smile.

"If you'd join us in the library? I'll have your luggage taken to your rooms," John Ward intervened, waving towards the library.

"You're looking well," Cole commented to the Ward patriarch as they headed down the hallway.

Grant rolled his eyes at the floor. His father looked like death warmed over, and everybody knew it.

They walked in, and Jemma was sitting quietly at the window seat, turned sideways towards the window, a book open on her lap. She stood politely when they entered and closed the book.

Cole Song raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Grant supposed he was wondering why John Ward allowed random employees into the library.

He started to cross the room towards his wife, but his father anticipated him. "I'd like you to meet our guests, sweetheart," he said, extending his hand to her.

It must gall his father to have to call her that, Grant thought with not a little perverse satisfaction.

She crossed the room, putting her hand in her father-in-law's. He guided her forward. She looked up at them then and smiled at Grant, and he returned it quietly but genuinely, allowing himself that one indulgence before having to face the matchmaking fathers again.

"Cole, Hu Juan, Mae - this is my new daughter-in-law, Jemma." Grant did not miss Mae stiffening in front of him. "She and Grant married just five days ago in Boston."

"I am so pleased to meet you," Jemma smiled, her eyes bright and warm. "Please, be seated. And Dad, you, too, please," she said earnestly. "You've been on your feet all day."

Grant could not stop the smile playing on his lips. She behaved with as much polite gentility as if she were born into this lifestyle - but with a beautiful warmth and intimacy he was not familiar with.

"Married." Song's eyebrows rose. He made no move to sit. "Five days ago."

Hu Juan knew far better than her husband how to act. She crossed the room to grasp Jemma's hand with a warm welcome. "The pleasure is ours, Mrs. Ward. Congratulations to you. And to you, too, Grant," she said, turning to him. She then, as had been requested, took a seat.

"Thank you." He could afford to be gracious.

Mae Song knew the proper behavior, too. She turned and extended a hand to him in a professional, detached manner. "Congratulations. Many happy returns," she said, and there was something in her eyes that Grant did not quite get. Relief? No doubt. Mae then crossed the room to Jemma, who extended her hand to the younger woman with a gentle smile. "And congratulations to you, also. I wish all the very best." She then followed her mother's example, sitting down next to her.

Cole Song was the only one left standing by now. "Married." His tone was chilling.

"Yes, sir," Grant replied, with almost perverse pleasure. "My father informed me he was not well" 'looking good' - ha! "and so naturally I wished to rush home. I was, however, unwilling to leave my fiancée, so we married immediately."

"Your mother must have been disappointed not to plan your wedding," Hu Juan offered kindly, cutting her husband off before he could say something more. "I would be."

Jemma smiled - almost bittersweet, Grant thought. "My parents are both deceased, ma'am," she said, and when Mrs. Song looked stricken, she said graciously, "there is no way you could have known. But it did mean that the decision to marry was my own."

"I had only to contend with a reluctant employer," Grant lied with as much affectionate charm as he could muster. "The children were rather unhappy to let their nanny go."

His father and his aunt stiffened at the reminder. Even Hu Juan Song blinked at that, her eyes widening.

Cole Song looked furious.

"Jemma, hon," his father said, reaching up to take her hand. "Would you escort Mrs. Song and Mae to their rooms, please? Their luggage would have been taken up already." He smiled his big, charming smile, the one he worse when he was pretending an ease he did not feel

Jemma nodded but looked a little worried; she was still not completely familiar with the layout of the home. Grant started to get up to go with her, but his father discreetly shook his head. As Jemma followed the two women out, Grant saw his aunt lay a quiet hand on her wrist and give her whispered directions. Relief crossed her face and she quickly ducked out.

Grant squared his shoulders, now turning back to those in the room. This was his defining moment - to demonstrate that he had shaken their power and influence over them. He would respect them as his elders, but he would not be their puppet.

Trip's words came back to him: "But you are letting him control you - you're just doing the opposite of what he wants. That's still control."

He wondered, fleetingly, how Jemma seemed so free.

"What the h-ll, John," Song snapped the minute the door closed.

"Cole, take it easy," his father replied with that same, easy tone. "We knew well that it might not have worked out, anyhow. We only agreed to introduce Grant and Mae now that they were both adults, and let the chips fall where they may. And my son keeps reminding me that he is an adult and didn't agree to any of this." He held up his hands in a "hey, what will you do?" gesture. "He's got a point."

"You have so little control over your children that you'll let them marry some woman he most likely picked up off the street?" Song snapped.

Grant barely pulled himself back from reaching across and punching the man. He stepped in front of him in one long stride, staring at him eye to eye. "You are upset," he said, his voice nearly whisper-quiet, cold condescension in his voice, "so I will excuse it - this time. But you say anything like that ever again about my wife, and you will know what it means to cross me."

"Are you threatening me?"

Grant grinned then, his teeth baring, his expression feral. He said nothing.

"Look, Cole," his father sighed. "Nobody needs to know what we had planned. You are still here to see me, an old friend. The business partnership will still happen. Rather than this being some social engagement to introduce my eldest to your only child, it is a happy coincidence that he has come home with his wife the same time an old family friend is here. Everything goes off just as we intended, with the focus on the business."

His aunt had her arms folded across her chest, looking stern, as she always had. "Don't embarrass yourself by storming off, Cole." Victoria Hand spoke with a cold finality. There would be no question that both men would agree to her terms. "Because it will be you who is embarrassed."

At his sister-in-law's comment, John Ward merely spread his hands again in a shrug.

There was a long silence. His father had made a good argument, Grant thought. It would be a tense week - but it could be carried off easily without the rumor mill catching wind of it.

"I hope you've given your son and that woman a good talking to." To Cole Song, Grant noted, Jemma was just "that woman" - certainly nobody to acknowledge in and of herself, and not even John Ward's daughter-in-law or Grant Ward's wife.

"Grant knows how displeased I am. Jemma, however, bears no blame at all. And since I have met her, I've grown quite fond of her."

Huh. Grant had to admit some surprise - not at the words themselves (his father would literally say anything, true or not, to give himself an advantage), but at the tone. His father actually seemed like he meant what he said.

Song was not pleased. "Even though she's some gold-digging tramp he - "

Grant started to step forward, but his father's tone forestalled him. It held none of the false charm he normally exuded; instead, it was cold and steely, the 'don't ever argue with me' tone that dared anybody to disagree. "I," John Ward said firmly, "am immensely fond of my new daughter-in-law."

It was not long after Song had departed that his father sighed, seemingly exhausted by the short confrontation. He turned to his sister-in-law and to his son. "Hu Juan will be more than delighted by this turn of events."

Grant knew it. His sources told him that Cole Song and his wife were in a sharp disagreement over whom Mae should marry. While Hu Juan was by nature a friendlier, less blustery person, she was as iron-willed as her husband. She simply wanted Mae for somebody else.

"But she will keep her husband in check," Victoria replied sharply. "She understands how this game works, even if he does not."

"Look, Vic, I - "

"Don't call me 'Vic' - it's condescending," she said sharply. "Just be aware that Cole Song is going to do everything to humiliate Grant and Jemma if you don't do something."

"C'mon, what do you want me to do?" John Ward exclaimed.

She smiled, a tense but self-satisfied smile. "Leave it to me."

* * *

Grant did not see his wife for the few hours before dinner, despite looking for her. When he finally trudged back to their rooms, her found her reading, wearing what she had worn on the tour, the simple yellow blouse and worn skirt and flats with a hole in them. Her hair was down, curled in large rolls and gently tied back. She smiled at him.

He walked with her down to dinner, not looking forward to it at all. He could see the look of disdain on Cole Song's face the minute they appeared and resisted the urge to wipe it off his face.

He knew something was up, however, when his wife sweetly gestured for him to go into the dining room with the other guests. She took up at the end - and then seated herself easily at the one end of the dining table, in the hostess's chair, across from his father.

He schooled his features to hide his surprise and glanced surreptitiously down towards his father's end of the table. The Ward patriarch behaved as if nothing were odd. Grant looked to his aunt, who behaved the same way.

Dinner was, by Grant's estimation, as much of a fix on a disaster as could be hoped for. Mrs. Song had been seated by his father, as dictated; Mr. Song, the guest of honor, by Jemma, the hostess. This disappointed father had glowered at the newlyweds the entire dinner and had flatly refused to speak to her at first. Grant, seated across from him, had barely controlled his temper. Phil looked tense, and Len looked like he was about to say something but held his tongue. Celia looked furious and kept tapping her leg nervously, and Grant prayed silently that she would not say anything, however wittily biting, to upset the guest and hurt Jemma's first attempt at hostessing.

After batting rather poorly to start, Jemma hit upon the safe topic of the morning tour of Len and Celia's laboratory the next day. That engaged everybody in the conversation: Len and Celia, obviously; Cole Song, who was interested in the business; and of course Grant himself and Jemma. Mae Song remained quiet throughout the discussion but seemed to be absorbing what she was hearing, offering a quiet comment here and there.

At one point he excused himself to the restroom and returned to find Mae Song smiling quietly to herself. Her father did not look pleased. Celia gave him a "thumbs up" look from her side of the table, a look of pride directed at her new friend.

Jemma, however, remained as she always was - warm and gracious. Grant thought that her unflappable nature, her refusal to become angry or upset by how she was treated, may have been even more infuriating for Mae's father than if she had been downtrodden and embarrassed.

He noted that, at the end of the dinner, Mae and Jemma spoke for some time, and both women walked away with what he considered to be genuine smiles. On Jemma, it was of no surprise. Of what he'd seen of Mae Song, a smile that real was an accomplishment.

Tomorrow evening's reception should go better, he hoped. There were fewer disappointed fathers and far more curiosity seekers.

~| tw |~

Jemma was glad when dinner was over. It was quite evident that in his own mind, Cole Song had already married his daughter most brilliantly to one of the older families of influence in New York and Boston. To Song, she was the thief who had stolen his son-in-law from him.

She found it interesting, however, that Hu Juan did not seem especially upset at the development; she even seemed somewhat pleased. Jemma did not know whether Mrs. Song was just a good actress or she was genuinely happy about the whole thing. Jemma also did not know whether she had had another person in mind for her daughter and had argued with her husband about it, or if she were genuinely happy because of how Mae felt.

And Jemma was quite sure how Mae felt. The two had been very, very discreet, but Jemma had grown up with multiple brothers and sisters and knew all the tricks. Phil had been distant, no more forward than Len; to a stranger, it would have seemed nothing, but Jemma had come to realize that Phil was the friendliest of the three Ward brothers and his silence was odd. She had not missed seeing his hand, gently reaching out to brush Mae's, and her response.

"I didn't know you'd be here," Mae had whispered when he touched her.

"I took leave," Phil murmured back, his eyes searching her face. "Are you disappointed?"

She was quiet a moment. "Before, I had hoped you wouldn't be here," she said, her voice soft. "But now - no, I'm not disappointed." She smiled, then - a genuine smile.

He responded with one of his own.

What Jemma had seen was confirmed later. Phil had shown up in the kitchen while his aunt was talking to the cook. Victoria had nodded at him, and then he had sat down with his newest sister-in-law and carefully explained everything he knew about the Songs - personality, business, idiosyncracies. He seemed to know a great deal about Mae, Jemma thought, and noted the small smile he always seemed to wear when he talked about his longtime friend.

Not just a longtime friend, if Jemma knew anything about anything. She hoped fervently that, if the two childhood friends were truly suited to each other, it would work.

* * *

When everybody finally turned in for the night, Grant sat brooding in the lounger in his room, the TV on a low drone. He was a mix of emotions. Tonight, in some ways, was a harbinger of tomorrow evening. Jemma had more than acquitted herself - she had shone and demonstrated a classy gentility. As a hostess, she had been warm and inviting and wonderful. If her guests did not live up to their part of the social niceties, they were the ones who looked bad.

He heard the shower shut off, and some time later, Jemma appeared, scrubbed and ready for sleep. "I am going to bed," she said. She hesitated at the door, then said, "Good night," and started to head back to her room.

"Why did you serve as hostess tonight?" he asked suddenly, looking up from where he was seated. He switched off the television to give her his full attention.

He had been surprised, then tense and furious at Song's behavior when dinner started. As the time went on, though, and Jemma successfully started up a conversation which included everybody, he relaxed. Grant had to admit to some enjoyment. His father was still clearly displeased with Jemma's physical appearance, and Song was just mad all around. Jemma had been so shabby, in her faded blouse, but she had acted with more grace and manners than anybody at the table.

"Your aunt reminded me that I am the eldest son's wife," she pointed out. "Your father is a widower, and all the children are of age. She should not be the hostess; I should."

"You do not need to fulfill these social functions. I did not bring you here to do that," he said. In fact, quite the opposite.

"But you chose to marry _me_," she replied. "I may not dress or even act like a society wife. I am sure your family despises my appearance and my lack of education and my choice of employment and my background and my poverty. I can change none of that. But as an immigrant, I represent my country. As a daughter, I represent my parents. And I will not allow anybody to believe my upbringing was defective."

And so there it was. He had learned quite early on that the little mouse he had hired did not exist. She had wanted the job so desperately and so had gone from a bright English rose to a mousey American nanny. For all she was bad at lying and refused to do so, she had faded into his carpet at the interview and he had bought it.

He should not have ignored his spidey senses the first time she had looked up at him with those hazel eyes. Even then he had sensed he was getting into far more than he could handle. There was a great deal more grit and intelligence than he had anticipated. Tonight had demonstrated that, despite the inroads she had made with his family, she was still an outsider to that class. Tonight had also demonstrated that she cared not a whit for their opinion - she cared, rather, to honor those she loved.

Had loved, he reminded himself. Her parents were gone. She had nobody.

Nobody but him.

"Nobody will insult you tomorrow," he promised again. But now he was personally committed to see that through. "Not with me there." Nor with his father, either. John Garrett Ward would not allow anybody to speculate on the rift between father and son; he would present a united front with his son on the matter of his wife. They could offer her their protection.

Not that she seemed to need it.

She smiled then. "Insults are only effective when the insulted wants the approval of the insulters. I will not be insulted."

And that, he marveled, was how she did it: quiet, firm, and charming setdown.

For the first time he considered that he might well have inadvertently married a woman who would raise him significantly in society - something his father had wanted so desperately. It would be the great irony, wouldn't it.

For the first time he considered that he might well have inadvertently married the woman who might make _him_ a better man - if she stayed. That was something else to ponder entirely.

Grant stood, coming over to her. He was nearly a foot taller than her when she was in her stocking feet, as she was now. He gently brushed a lock of hair from her face. "You hid yourself quite well during that interview," he said softly, not quite caring if she had followed his train of thought to this point. "You hid how beautiful you are." He leaned forward, pausing slightly, and then kissed her gently on the forehead.

* * *

Grant woke the next morning with a start, his neck stiff. He stretched and rolled his head and shoulders, hearing some parts pop. He looked around at where he'd slept, and the uncomfortable position. He noticed that Jemma had gone.

She had ended up sitting next to him on the couch, and they had watched TV for a little bit, before both had quickly fallen asleep there on the couch. He had awoken a few hours later to some infomercial, with her fast asleep, quietly curled against him.

He had pulled his blankets over them both and carefully tucked her against his side. He was already enjoying this too much: her sleeping next to him had served as a pleasant somnolent. He reminded himself that had to get used to not having her there with him.

After tonight's dinner, he had to let her go.

He himself would most likely have to stay. Despite what he had said to Jemma, it was obvious his father was deteriorating rapidly, and Grant believed that this time, the doctor would not be wrong - his father would not survive the summer. There would be endless amounts of paperwork and business to conduct. The sharks would smell blood in the water the minute John Garrett Ward passed; Phil was still very young and Len had always been more scientist than businessman.

But he could not ask Jemma to stay through all that. He had not contracted her to do so. She most likely would stay if he asked, simply because she was that type of person, but he could not lay on her more burdens than he already had.

He tucked the blankets around her sleeping form, then dressed quickly and headed out for a run. As he passed the workout room, he noticed Mae in there - with Phil. They had the mats laid out and were grappling. Mae had flung Phil to the ground, and he had rolled to his side and hooked his leg under hers, sending her tumbling as well. They were laughing.

He didn't even think Mae Song knew how to laugh, much less actually did it.

Grant showered quickly after his run and came down to breakfast. He could hear Phil's voice, and then Jemma's - not clearly. He glimpsed Mae as he descended the stairs.

"You - are a tea snob!" He could hear Phil's playfully indignant voice, and then laughter from all three. He stopped outside the doorway, hidden from view, listening.

"I do apologize - I should not assume you liked tea," Jemma's voice was genuinely, sweetly apologetic. "It was just that the morning after Grant and I arrived, I found an unopened tray of tea pouches at breakfast, and nobody but I even touched them! And there were some labelled red tea, and then there was a glass container of dry chrysanthemums," she rambled, much to Grant's quiet amusement. "The only person I ever saw open that container was Ada, because she likes watching the flower expand when it's placed in water. So I naturally assumed the tea tray was brought for a guest, and when Grant told me your family was coming this weekend, I naturally assumed they were for you."

"I like the red," Mae was saying. "And the chrysanthemum."

"What do flower teas taste like?" Jemma asked curiously.

"Very light. Much lighter than the red."

"How come we have red tea?" Phil was cutting in. "I don't remember any store selling red tea. I have no idea where Dad found this."

"Westerners call red tea black tea," Mae explained. "In Chinese black tea is something else."

"I see she has not quite converted you yet," Jemma said with a bright smile as Phil blushed and Mae chuckled.

"Convert," Phil scoffed. "Grant doesn't drink tea, either."

"Ugh." Jemma shook her head, and Grant could guess that tone was accompanied by an eye-roll. Phil was chuckling, as was Mae. "Every time I have some and he is there I ask if he wishes to try it. The face - ! But, he is an American in Boston," she huffed, almost unconsciously.

There was a beat, and then Phil and Mae burst out laughing. He waited for the laughter to die down before he strode in. "Morning." There were murmured greetings, and then as he sat down with a mug of coffee, she smiled up at him. He could not resist pecking her on the cheek. He did not know if this was for the benefit of the other two in the room - or for his own.

"Just coffee?" Jemma asked, looking at him, bright-eyed and hiding a smile behind her mug. "No tea?"

"Of course," he replied, his lips twitching. Phil hid a smile.

~| tw |~

After breakfast, John Ward and the Songs were driven down to Len and Celia's agricultural co-op in order to give them a tour. Song hinted broadly, but Grant resolutely played dumb - he was not going on the tour. He had already seen the facility with his wife, he said; he would not want to be a distraction when his father and the Songs toured.

He knew well why Cole Song wanted him there: there was going to be a reporter and a photographer. Had Grant been single and toured the facility with his father and the Songs, the rumor mill would have revved to an unfortunate frenzy.

It was not with a little irritation that he pondered how no media had bothered to show up when he had toured with his wife. Not even curiosity-seekers had come to see how she would fare. They had ignored her instead.

Grant was restless. Jemma had sat with Ada while the child practiced, much to Aunt Victoria's irritation - she had hostess duties to perform, the older woman had said sharply. When he had offered to help, his aunt just gave him a look. Still, the man was loath to pull Jemma away from Ada. Phil had said that it was the first time Ada had shown any interest in her lessons, and he was not about to separate his wife from her little champion. It was only half-an-hour, anyhow.

He did not know how he was going to tell Ada when he finally took Jemma away and settled her in her own home.

Not long afterwards, he noticed Phil wandering aimlessly around the backyard, looking down every so often towards the direction of the laboratory. Grant did not say anything when Jemma approached to stand next to him, still looking down towards the youngest Ward brother.

"He loves Mae, you know," she said softly.

"I know." He had figured it out quickly, based on Mark Lockwood's reports. Grant could not help but think of the irony, that he had nearly ruined both of his brothers' marriage prospects, with his mother favoring Celia and his father favoring Mae. Had they even looked at the two other boys? Seen and considered what they felt? "Cole Song first started coming when I was in high school. Phil couldn't have been more than seven or eight. He and Mae got on like a house on fire, the first and only time I saw them." He smiled a little. "You wouldn't believe it, but Mae Song pranked Len one time, something terrible. Phil couldn't stop laughing even when they told me the story two weeks after it happened."

"Mae Song? A prankster?" Jemma could barely believe it.

Grant smiled grimly. "I'm sure that rough edge has been sanded right out by her parents."

"She smiles when she is with Phil, though," Jemma said. "Phil seems to make her happy."

Grant gave her a bittersweet smile. "Her father won't allow Phil near her, though. Especially after this whole business with me fell through."

"But he's still a Ward," Jemma pointed out.

"Phil is younger than she is. He will be an American naval officer, possibly one who might die in combat, with a naval officer's salary." Grant shrugged, feeling more than a little sorry for his youngest brother. Out of all three of them, he had always thought Phil well-suited for marriage and family: a good head on his shoulders, a good sense of what partnership and leadership entailed, a good balance between easy-going and firm. "I doubt Cole Song wants any of that for his daughter."

"I suppose," Jemma said thoughtfully, "he also believes that his daughter won't be happy in those circumstances." She paused. "But I believe, of anybody, Mae Song would be the most adaptable to that traveling, military life."

"Mmm." He watched as Phil stopped moving. Grant could see, in the distance, the car bringing his father and the Songs back.

"Perhaps," Jemma said softly, "If your father gave Phil a good portfolio - investments and such - Mr. Song might acquiesce and let Mae see him. This is his only child, his daughter; he must want her happy. And Phil is still a Ward."

He turned to her, then, a soft smile on his lips. There was no derision in his tone, only gentle affection. "You believe in fairy tales, I see."

"No," she said, her voice oddly quiet and sad. "No, I don't."

* * *

Victoria Hand was a cold drill sergeant. She was also, the younger woman noted, deeply committed to this family, and although Jemma was now wise enough to say nothing about it (when she was younger, she would have blurted out something), it was comforting to know.

It was quite obvious that the woman had decided that if her eldest nephew was going to make a fool of himself, he was not about to make a fool of the family publicly. A united front did not mean they liked Jemma; no, she was not that stupid to believe so. But while she had been quite forthright and honest that her upbringing had taught her just as much class and dignity as any of theirs, it didn't mean she knew all of her guests or all the ins and outs of hosting a dinner party like this. Jemma had little aptitude for domestic matters, especially decorating. (Changing home decorations by season? Madness!)

Victoria Staunton-Hand was a veritable dragoness, but a caring one, and Jemma was grateful to the older woman for her instructions. The older woman had already hired the requisite number of staff for the night and had taken care of how many hours they were to work. She lectured her newest niece on placement for formal dinners and explained how the menu had been chosen, and then listed everything from the guests' allergies and favorite wines to which of New York's elite liked her husband and which ones did not.

It was just a million small things Jemma had never considered. For example: after dinner, her aunt-in-law said, Jemma needed to count how many empty wine bottles there were - _herself_ - and then take the empty wine bottles out to the recycling tub and personally smash them. The younger woman wrote it down but looked back up at her tutor, confused. "You have hired staff," said the older woman imperiously. "Doing this prevents them from drinking the wine themselves and then claiming the guests drank more than they actually did."

Jemma blinked. She had not even considered that.

She had told Grant that she was not going to be insulted here; she did not care much about what they thought of her. But even so, she was beginning to care about how they saw her husband - and his family. She was not going to embarrass this family who was inexplicably growing in her affections.

Jemma had always been this way. When her mother had died, her distraught father had nearly sent Penny, who was only five, away to his sister. Jemma had stepped in, and Leo with her, to help run the household. They had done the cooking and cleaning and gotten Penny ready for school before they headed off themselves. When their father had remarried not long after, to a lady all three of them adored, she had continued to help her stepmother, especially when the three youngest had come along. And after her father's death and her stepmother's untimely accident, she had again taken charge to keep the family together and pay off the debt. And at her last job, she had gotten herself fired because she had intervened on behalf of the underage, illegal immigrant maid who was too frightened to stand up for herself.

And now she had done it again. Jemma worried - she feared for her father-in-law, who appeared to find attachments a weakness and who loved nobody and whom nobody loved back - or so they thought. She deeply respected her late mother-in-law's sister, the seemingly cold, statuesque woman conducted her business with a seeming iron fist - but had stood loyally by the family all these years, even after her sister's death. She loved Ada, the sweet little child who had been forced to grow up too soon, not unlike she herself had, but in an entirely different way. She worried for Phil: she had traded her concern about his estrangement from his eldest brother for a concern that he would lose the woman he loved to some more 'advantageous' marriage. She felt her heart break for Celia, who was all fun and witty and outgoing charm but no doubt felt very deeply how she had inadvertently split the two older brothers. And she felt badly for Len, who reminded her so much of her own brother - loved learning, prone to sarcasm - and prone to keeping quiet for the benefit of somebody he loved.

And she loved her husband - this silly, _silly_ man who was so troubled, who thought he controlled so much of his own life. How he blustered and glowered but was so deeply vulnerable - and had been so deeply hurt.

Last night, she had been awakened when it was clear Grant was having a nightmare. He was stiff, his grip on her nearly punishing. His brow was furrowed tightly, his jaw clenched most likely to the point of pain. She had wrapped her arms around him, whispering softly, gently stroking his hair until he had relaxed. He never woke. She herself had felt a surge of tender affection for him as she pulled the blanket higher around them both.

She was so stupid, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review! My apologies to pandaslove and to the anonymous reviewers: I'm sorry I can't respond to your reviews. (pandaslove, I can't private-message you through for some reason.) I do appreciate the time everybody, anonymous or not, takes to read and to comment.

The response has been a little overwhelming; I haven't gotten this big a reaction since I sent Jethro Gibbs and his rambunctious team to a psychiatrist. To be honest, now I'm a little freaked out and am frantically rewriting the ending where Grant believes a sleeping Jemma's dead and drinks the poison she's got beside her and she wakes up to find _him_ dead so she picks up his knife and - kidding. Kidding, seriously. (Apologies, Willie. Although that was most certainly _not_ your best work - ending included.) As we enter the home stretch, I just hope the ending is not a complete letdown. I'm afraid people might have their expectations hepped up to fever pitch!

I want to thank anonymous-lemonade for HER beautiful picture edit thing she made me on tumblr. It's quite different from lloydgrints' but just as creative, and each gives insights into the FF. See the link to lloydgrints' in chapter 6.

My absolute favorite bits from anonymous-lemonade's: the picture of the shoes (exactly how Jemma's shoes and clothes are - proper but so worn) and the entire first panel. She's done a brilliant job on the Hollywood Reporter photo in the middle, better than I did. I love the photo because they're dressed exactly how I would see them if the Wards were visiting a charity during the day: appropriately proper in design, style, material for their age, class, and purpose/event. And the picspam's checklists?! rotflol. Perfect. "In love* *optional" for Grant - spot-on description. Take a look at:  
.com(SLASH)post(SLASH)97310558213(SLASH)

* * *

By the time Grant was dressing for this dinner party, he was feeling more pleased with everything than he had expected. He had managed to avoid the Songs - or, perhaps, they had managed to avoid him, no doubt because Cole Song was still irritated with him. That was the only thing that had worked according to plan.

Still, as far as his plans had been thrown out of whack, he was still pleased. He had reconciled with both his brothers, whom he had missed far more than he was willing to admit. He had had the chance to see his sister, whom he had not seen since she was a month old and he had given her a bottle. Celia he could see now more clearly: he continued to have an appreciation for her beauty, but he found he no longer felt for her as he had years ago. Grant even had to admit to questioning his affection then for Celia: had he been attracted to her simply because she was everything his father disliked, or had he actually loved her for herself? And had he really felt the loss of Celia herself, or had he just felt terribly betrayed by his brother? Whatever the answers were, however, all this was now in his past.

Grant knew he could not take much credit for his reconciliations with his family. He had come to flaunt his shabby wife, to horrify them all, and to wallow - yes, 'wallow,' he admitted - in his perverse triumph. _Schadenfreude_, to the highest degree. Jemma herself had been the difference - a difference he had not anticipated on.

He had discovered her secret: her freedom. She was free not because she gave herself no restrictions, but because she knew herself: she knew which responsibilities she chose to shoulder and avoided those which would bury and kill her. Rather than break every rule, she operated quite easily within them. She had been warm and welcoming but not inappropriate; she had been dressed so raggedly, but not classlessly; she had been loving and kind without shouting the walls down. She had transformed the home from the inside out.

And perhaps him, as well.

Grant must send her away, and as soon as possible. For one, she had more than fulfilled her duties as laid out in their contract: he had been accepted as a married man who made his own decisions. And it would be far easier to send her away now, while the shock was still fresh and before the Wards got used to her as one of the family. Before Len started going to her for science advice. Before Celia made too close of friends. Before Phil started joking with her. Before Ada got too attached. Before he became too used to having her nearby every day.

Before he became too used to having her in his bed every night.

Grant twisted the wedding ring on his finger back and forth, then checked his appearance in the mirror. As he adjusted his black tie, he was suddenly struck with a thought: he had not given Jemma anything to wear with her dress - any kind of jewelry.

The dress, of course, was finished. It had been delivered to the house the night before, and Celia's worried phone calls had become excited hollering when it had arrived for real. Jemma had not allowed him to see it, her eyes dancing with delight and mischief while she hid the dress. He let her have this one and did not press the issue.

She had not complained a whit since she came, or even looked at him sideways. But how must she have felt, dressed in her hand-me-downs and patched shoes? How must she have felt, when even Len's workers were dressed better than the heir's wife? And tonight, while she had the dress, her neck and her ears would be bare. She was the hostess, as well, and of course the source of curiosity for New York society, and she had nothing but her wedding ring.

Jemma had not said a word. She would not. Grant did not even know if she had thought about it, seeing as she generally seemed worried about everybody else but herself. But he - he had no excuse. He should have thought of it; he should have thought of her needs first. He had not even gotten his own wife a wedding gift - and he had given his last girlfriend a ruby necklet as a break-up gift.

He thought it over. He had a gold chain and locket - a gift from his mother. He had it with him. He also had a diamond and pearl necklace in white gold he had bought almost six months ago. He had intended it for whatever woman he took up with in the future - some nameless, faceless person whom he'd date for a little before it stopped working out. It had been less about this hypothetical woman and more about the necklace: even as a man, he had seen it and thought it too good to pass up. He had brought the necklace with him, as a gift for Ada, the sister he had not seen in nine years.

He looked through his luggage and found it. It was beautiful: an asymmetrical "budding" necklace: little diamond-studded "vines" and "leaves" formed the necklace, with each vine ending in a little pearl "bud". It was delicate and quiet and uniquely beautiful - everything he had come to associate with his wife. With it were matching earrings, diamond studs from which hung teardrop-shaped pearls.

It did not matter what color dress she wore - pearls would match anything. He owed her no money, as he was paying quite well for her care afterwards. This was not payment. He could give them as a gift for a job well done - but he found that thought disgusting, as though he were paying an escort. She was his wife. But what reason could he give for the gift?

The necklace would be a wedding present, even though theirs was not a normal marriage.

A gift for his wife. The thought was both terrifying and lovely.

~| tw |~

Celia was, Jemma thought, overly excited. It wasn't even about the dinner party itself - Jemma had suspected, and Celia had quite emphatically agreed, that she would have preferred a backyard barbeque or something to that effect. Instead, Celia said, she'd never had a sister to do all this fancy pre-party hair and make-up prep with, and of _course_ she was overcompensating, and Jemma would have to deal.

Their stylist just laughed and let it go.

Jemma had never had a stylist. She had never seen the need, even when her father was alive and their lives were more stable financially. Afterwards, that was a luxury she wouldn't even consider. She and Leo and Penny had learned to cut each other's hair from youtube videos, and so that was that.

This time, Celia insisted: this was her big debut as a Ward. Jemma was feeling incredibly pampered, and the stylist had trimmed and styled her hair and then carefully done it up in an elegant chignon. Celia's long hair was in loose curls, swept to the side of her neck with an expensive clip, but done so in a manner that still showed off her long, thin earrings, which dangled straight down her ears and brushed her shoulders. It was Celia: wild and fun and beautifully glamorous.

"So pretty," Ada sighed, watching them with delight.

"Doesn't Jemma look like a princess?" Celia laughed, hugging her little sister-in-law. She then stood up regally, giving the stereotypical "royal wave" and speaking in a rather poor attempt at a posh English accent, "Her Majesty welcomes you to the palace."

Ada giggled.

Jemma turned, looking at her new friend's hilariously ridiculous pose. "Is that all because I'm English?" she asked suspiciously.

"What? Pffft, no," Celia scoffed, winking at their little sister-in-law.

Ada beamed like she was hiding a secret, then sighed when she looked at Celia. "You're pretty, too."

Celia beamed and squeezed her tight, making the child smile. "We'll have to get Jemma earrings," Celia decided, Ada nodding enthusiastically.

Celia's two little sons were sitting in the room with them. Kitty was asleep back at home, with Len and Celia's housekeeper watching over her, but the two boys were here. Grant was already bored, playing away on his tablet, but Clark was watching with adoration in his eyes. "I wanna marry Aunt Jemmie," he sighed with a starry-eyed smile.

There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then laughter. Jemma got up and hugged him. "Oh, sweetheart," she sighed with amusement, then teased, "Don't you want to marry your mum?"

"Silly." Clark smiled as Celia chuckled. "Mommy's already married to Daddy."

"Oh," Jemma said, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Well, thank you for informing me." She paused, then teased, "Isn't there some lovely girl you want to marry when you grow up?"

"No." Clark shook his head. "I don't like girls. They keep touching my head." He had Len's short, silky curls, and no doubt people loved to run their fingers through them. At that, both Celia and Jemma laughed.

"Don't be silly," Grant announced with importance, looking up from the game on his tablet. "You can't marry her. Aunt Jemma's already married to Uncle Grant."

Clark became very still in his spot on Jemma's lap, looking up at her in disbelieving, heartbroken horror.

"That's why she's your Aunt Jemma," Ada explained. "Because she's married to Grant."

Clark turned his mother for confirmation.

"I'm sorry, honey," Celia replied, barely containing her amusement.

Clark burst into tears, sitting there, heaving big sobs. He reached up for his mother, wanted no other comfort than from her Celia rushed over and picked him up without a second thought about her dress. "But Ada's my aunt and she's not married," he sobbed into his mommy's neck.

Both women were torn between laughter and tears, looking at each other in amusement. As Celia hugged him, bouncing him as he cried, there was a door knock. Jemma quickly crossed to open it, to find Len standing there, his smile quickly disappearing. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Your son has just had his first romantic heartbreak," Celia replied, as seriously as she could, her voice still tinged with laughter. At her husband's look, she explained, "Clark has just discovered that his uncle Grant has called dibs on his woman of choice."

Jemma looked sheepishly apologetic.

At that, Len's face cleared, and he looked amused even as he muttered, "Gee, I know how that goes." The little boy launched himself at his father, blubbering. "Jemma," Len said, smiling at her as he rubbed the back of his distraught little boy, "Dad wants to see you. Well, all of us. Celia and I will be right down. Dad's in the library."

She nodded, and when Celia got up to go with her, Jemma shook her head. "I can find my way."

"We'll do the earrings later," Celia said, waving a pair at her.

~| tw |~

Grant headed over to the empty suite of rooms Celia had commandeered for her and Jemma to get ready. Why they needed their own room completely baffled him, and why they needed to be together was just as puzzling - he could have easily just hired somebody else to help Jemma. Celia had just glared at him, hands on her hips, when he protested. "I've never had a grown-up sister to play dress up with," she huffed at him like he was a dimwit. "So you're just going to have to suck it."

He could hear some whispering in the room. He knocked, and the door opened to reveal Len, his shirt wet.

"What's wrong?" Grant frowned, noticing the shirt and then looking past him and seeing little Clark, wiping his face with the back of his hands and sniffling.

"You broke another Ward boy's heart," Len replied, but his tone was without bitterness, just amusement. "Gotta stop doing that."

Grant looked at him, his brow furrowed.

"Clark was just informed that Jemma is his aunt because she's married to you," Len explained, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You kind of scuttled his marriage plans."

At that, even Grant couldn't stop smiling. He looked over Len's shoulder towards the little boy, who had his arms wrapped around his mother's neck, now quiet.

"Sorry?" Grant offered, his voice tinged with mirth.

"A cookie would help," Len whispered, his face deadpan.

"No cookie on me," Grant replied, his lips twitching. "Perhaps I should go."

"Jemma's downstairs," Len replied to his unspoken question. "Dad asked for her. Well, for all of us."

"I'll stay here," Celia replied, waving the two brothers out.

So his father had asked for Jemma. He had chosen to show a real affection for his daughter-in-law that he had never shown his own children. Grant knew why: his father intended to discompose him, to play that upper hand and show him that he was not at all upset that his son had deliberately flouted him and married some woman who most likely had worked for their family friends, a woman without any political, social, or economic connections - or an academic degree.

Grant found, however, that he was not at all nonplussed by his father's actions; rather, he was amused. There were few people as deserving as Jemma of all the attentions lavished on her. He wanted to see this mysterious dress. He had wanted to give Jemma the pearls in private, but the setting didn't matter. He just wanted to see her smile - preferably, at him.

Good night. He _really_ had to get her out of his life as soon as possible.

* * *

When Jemma entered the library, Phil was there, with their aunt Victoria. Len and Celia were upstairs, of course, and her husband was most likely still in their rooms. Phil greeted her with a big grin.

"You wanted to see me, Dad?" she asked with a smile. He was sitting, which she had advised him to do.

"Come closer, hon," he replied, offering her a big smile. He held something in his hands. He paused for a moment, studying her face, then spoke. "I gave my wife a private gift on our wedding day," he said quietly. "When she passed away, it came back to me. I want you to have it, as my eldest son's bride."

She looked down as he opened his palm. It was an enormous, expensive diamond necklace: a pear-shaped diamond pendant, suspended from a chain of tiny, oval cut diamonds. It was too costly for what she was wearing, worth more than she would have ever thought possible. It was the other thing, however, that struck her. This had been John Ward's wedding gift to his wife. And now he was giving it to her.

For a moment she was stunned to complete silence before tears of affection sprung to her eyes. She blinked them back. "You must have loved her very much," she whispered.

There was what was both an interminable and short silence. His eyes were at once cold steel and warm pain. For a moment he did not speak, only swallowed once. "Yes," he finally said, so heavy but so quiet that she doubted anybody but her had heard.

Her father-in-law gestured for her to turn around, then carefully rose to fasten it on her neck. "This is where it belongs," he said, then surprisingly, kissed her on the forehead.

Jemma blushed, looking down at the floor. She loved him. She loved this elderly man who had pushed away so much; she felt a deep sadness and poignant affection for him. He was her husband's father.

A dangerous thought.

Just then the double doors opened, revealing the two older Ward brothers, each pulling one of the doors open. They entered, both grinning, evidently sharing some private joke.

He was devastatingly handsome, the older brother; he had foregone the black bowtie for a midnight black suit with a matching tie and matching shoes. In some ways he looked sharper and more dangerous than if he had worn a bow tie. His eyes found her out immediately, sweeping over her with something akin to warm affection as he strode towards her.

And then his eyes fell to her throat.

His eyes kindled, even as he came to a complete standstill. From the corner of her eye, Jemma saw Len's face freeze as the younger brother stiffened; he then slid concerned eyes towards his elder brother, whose smile had disappeared. She felt panic, but she continued to smile at her husband.

"Where did you get that?" Grant's voice was dark, cold, and very, very quiet.

"It was your mother's," she said foolishly as her hand went to her throat. She was dimly aware she had not answered his question.

"Where - where did you get that?" he repeated sharply.

"Your father gave it to me as a wedding gift," she replied. Of course she would return it when she left, she promised him silently. She could not say those words aloud.

"Take. It. Off."

She blinked, stunned for a moment, staring at him in puzzlement.

"Take it off." His face was pale, his jaw set, his tone like steel.

Jemma reached up to the clasp, fumbling with it. At one point she thought she had gotten it and released her hands, only to find the clasp hadn't quite disengaged.

He evidentally thought she had succeeded, because his one hand grabbed the pendant and jerked. The clasp caught on her neck, and she gasped.

"Turn around." She turned and tilted her head forward, her eyes blurring with tears. His fingers fumbled briefly, and then the necklace fell away into his waiting hand. He strode over to his father. "This is yours," he replied, his voice cold.

"Jemma was not wrong," his father replied with that same infuriatingly light, devil-may-care tone. "I gave it to her."

"I decline it," Grant snapped. "I will provide any clothes and jewelry she wears." When his father held up his hand, refusing the return, the son dropped the necklace to the floor.

All Jemma heard was the thud of the falling necklace. She had finally managed to get the door open and rushed into the hall, not sure she could stay any longer. She had thought herself strong enough to handle this family, but it was clear she could not.

She had not taken more than a few steps into the hall when she felt a hand grasp at her wrist. "Jemma."

It was Phil.

"No," she said, trying to steady her voice and pull herself loose. "No, please."

He let go, but he was still faster than her. He stepped quickly in front of her, catching her fingers gently again, then quickly pulled her to the workout room next door. He handed her some tissues and then ran the faucet, the water pouring onto a small, clean towel. He dabbed gently at her neck, the cold water soothing the bruised skin. "You did nothing wrong. Please believe me."

She said nothing, her hands shaking.

Phil's voice was distressed. "Please, Jemma. It wasn't you. It's just us - we're nuts. This family - you got caught among us. You did nothing wrong."

"No, she did not." The other voice was quieter. "I'll take care of her, Phil."

"Take care of her, my a**," Phil spat, the apologetic tone he had used with his sister-in-law turning into a contemptuous one for his eldest brother. "Her neck is bleeding. What the h-ll is wrong with you?"

"I will not hurt her," Grant said, his voice bleak and dull.

"Oh, you mean again?" Phil retorted. When his eldest brother said nothing, Phil hmphed. He continued to tend to his sister-in-law for a moment, pausing just long enough to glare at the older man. Whatever it was in his brother's face told the youngest Ward son what he needed to know - that the remorse was real. He then said quietly, "The necklace - that's what you were talking about the other morning."

"Yes." Grant's voice was chilled. "Be proud, Phil," he replied, his voice dull even as he tried to make a dark joke. "We actually are the devil's spawn." He held Jemma's hand gently in his own. "Jemma, please?" His voice was soft.

She straightened slightly, finally managing to compose herself. "Thank you, Phil," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand, then gave Grant a warning look on his way out.

Grant led her gently to a nearby chair and helped her sit down. He ran more water, then gently bathed her neck and applied ointment from the kit in the room. When he had finished, he finally sat down across form her. He made no move to touch her again, deliberately placing his hands in his lap.

He sat in silence for a long time. "I have never lifted my hand against any woman," he said, his voice broken and small, as if speaking to himself. "And the first one I hurt was my own wife."

He took a deep breath, and she noticed how it shook as he inhaled. "You were, as Phil said, caught in the middle." He paused a moment, as if debating whether or not to tell her, and then decided to do so. "The necklace was my mother's. She gave it to me not long before she died; it was for me to give to my wife." He paused. "I was, she said, the most precious person in her life."

He closed his eyes briefly, even though she looked up at him. He seemed far away. "Just a few days after she died - I was out running. When I came back, my father was in my room, holding it. He accused me of stealing it; he refused to hear anything I had to say. He whipped me with my own belt. I told him what would happen if he dared to try it. He did it anyhow."

"So you left home," Jemma said, softly, looking up at him now.

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "I was not angry with you. I was just - just blind with fury. It is no excuse for what I did."

"He gave it to me deliberately," she said quietly. "To hurt you."

He smiled bitterly. "You were right when you said you would be a pawn in our match." He lifted his hand to touch her, then withdrew it before he did so. "Does it hurt?"

"No," she said, standing to her feet. "Not any more. Just let me get my makeup redone; I still have a little time before the guests arrive in an hour."

He stared at her, mouth agape. "What are you talking about?"

She looked at him, baffled by his confusion. "The dinner, Grant."

"Like h-ll," he sputtered in surprise as he, too, stood. "I can have your bags packed in the next half-hour. I'm taking you back to Boston, and you'll tell me where you want to live and I'll settle you in as soon as possible. You have more than earned your part of the agreement."

She looked up at him, her eyes clear and firm. "We have a dinner to attend," she said firmly. "You ran away once and have never been able to outrun your ghosts, no matter what you may believe. We are not going to run now." She paused, then straightened completely, standing with such resolution and daring him to contradict her. "I will not permit you to do so."

He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. He drew in a deep breath, a soft smile touching his lips. "All right," he said, quietly acquiescing. He paused, and then removed a flat black box from his jacket. "But will you wear these? Only if you want to. And only if they do not hurt your neck."

He opened the box, and she gasped when she saw the necklace. It was delicate and perfect and so lovely. She wanted to cry.

"It's my wedding gift, to you," Grant said, unconsciously echoing his father's earlier words. Unbenownst to him, they were, for her, more moving than anything else he could have said. "If you - " his voice faltered. "If you will have it."

"Yes, I will wear it," she said, and he clasped them around her neck, gently resting them where they would not irritate her cut. "It's quite beautiful."

"But not as much," he whispered, "as its wearer."

* * *

It was not hard to get through dinner. His father acted as if nothing had happened; so did he. Nobody would suspect a thing.

Except perhaps his wife. She was a little too perceptive. And not just that; she was too unwilling to let these things be.

Jemma stood between the two of them, warmly welcoming everybody who entered. He smiled and greeted his guests - he could be as charming as his father if he exerted himself. He just disliked the false appearance he put on, or perhaps he disliked how similar it was to his father, who never took off that mask of fake charm. His wife, however, was gentuinely warm and gracious as she always was. She remembered each guest's name and showed genuine interest in them. Even if his aunt had made her study the guests beforehand, she did not treat the people as homework, but as interesting individuals.

Grant looked down at her with affection. He would only allow himself to consider it affection.

After most of their guests had arrived, she gently asked his father if he would sit, promising that she and her husband would greet the rest of the guests. She sounded almost fond. And to Grant's surprise, his father allowed it.

They mingled separately with the guests, who were milling about the large deck and dining area and into the yard. His mind kept returning to the memory of his mother's necklet and to his behavior in the library; it soured his expression. Jemma passed him by, walking with an elderly man who was clearly delighted to have the new Mrs. Ward's attention and was talking her ear off. As she walked past her husband, she laid a hand on his wrist and looked up at him, her eyes bright and smiling. "Smile," she whispered. "It's the best revenge."

Grant wondered if she could really be smiling, or if it was a façade. Could she really be as happy as she looked? He had horribly humiliated her just an hour before. She had been accepted, finally, by his father in front of the entire family, and he had rejected it and stayed to confront his father while his youngest brother had comforted her. It was the one time she had lost her composure since this whole thing started, and he hadn't been there to be with her.

And here she was, coming to face his family again, although he had wanted to take her away before they - he - could hurt her again. And Jemma faced them without anger and cold dignity and recrimination - all of which she was entitled to - but with mercy and compassion.

Was she doing it for him, because they had a bargain? Or was she doing it to show them, as she had said before, that she had not been raised an uncouth savage? Or - the thought suddenly occurred to him - or was it both? Or more? That who she was was simply this compassionate, bright woman who loved and forgave, and that in being true to herself she was compassionate to him as well?

She had more class in her small frame than was present in everybody else combined.

He smiled this time, unconsciously. She beamed at him from across the room. She looked so deceptively simple in her pale blue dress - simple and fresh and new.

He really was falling in love with her. This time Grant did not push the sentiment away.

~| tw |~

Jemma had found out two things, even before the late dinner started. First was that she had been badly mistaken, and Celia had been quite right: _Mrs._ Grant Douglas Ward, not Mr., was was the focus of the evening. "They _know_ him," she had scoffed. "He's old news. But you - ! You're _THE_ Jemma Ward since Gemma Ward left the modeling circuit!" During the cocktail hour, there had been an unending line of people who had wanted to speak with her. She amused herself with the idea that she would have been roundly ignored had they met her just two weeks prior.

The other discovery, however, was more important - albeit not so much a discovery as a verification. Mae and Phil did have great affection for each other; she had found them sneaking a kiss in the bathroom off the kitchen. Even the ever stoic Mae had blushed as they stood in front of the older woman, heads bowed and looking sheepishly at the floor. Even without catching them in the act, Jemma had her confirmation from that scheming look in Celia's eyes when her new friend looked at the young pair. Celie would know - she had been there as both Mae and Phil grew up. Now they just had to convince Mae's father to allow the relationship.

Dinner went off swimmingly. There were a large number of guests, but they fit comfortably around the U-shaped table. Everybody seemed at ease, and the servers made sure glasses were kept full. Even Cole Song seemed pleased, which was not easy with Jemma as hostess.

John Ward eventually rose to speak. To her inexperienced ears, the applause was not especially cheerful but was at least warmly polite and not a cold formality.

The whole evening was a success, she thought, and laughed to herself that at least she had not done anything embarrassing. As her guests wandered back outside to the back, overlooking the water, Jemma was still chuckling with the servers, thanking them by name as they cleared away the dishes. It was then she felt a hand brush hers. She turned to see her husband; he was smiling at her, his eyes slightly hooded as he looked down at her.

She blushed under his intense gaze; she couldn't help it. She really needed to learn better self-control, she chastised herself. Perhaps she should have allowed him to take her back to Boston that night, as he had wanted.

"I'm going to steal you away," was all he said. He quietly laced his fingers through hers, as if he'd done it a million times. She could feel her heartbeat racing.

It was ridiculous, she thought. They had slept together - both in the literal and the euphemistic sense. But there was something different about this, about the way he was looking at her now.

More dangerous.

~| tw |~

Grant should have been pleased: the evening had turned out well. He had been welcomed back with curiosity but also with respect - he was now his own man. Jemma had been more than a hit: gracious and welcoming, she had greeted each person with the same gentleness. A few idiots had sniffed that she clearly did not know who was more important in the crowd, to greet everybody the same way, but Grant had been more than pleased when the Mellon heir and his wife had come to him just to say how much they liked Jemma. So he wasn't the only one to appreciate her.

Even Cole Song had been pleasant, even joking with her. It was hard to tell if he had thawed or if he was faking, but it was pleasant nonetheless - better to have politeness rather than the cold shoulder he had given her before.

But Grant found himself wanting something more - something that just wasn't this acknowledgment of his independence.

He found her in the dining room, chatting with the servers, thanking them. She was so warm and kind to everybody. He had gotten more than his fair share of her sunny generosity, and he had to admit to greediness when he laced his fingers with hers to take her away.

He led her out a side door. They could see their guests at the main part of the house, and he took her to the side garden.

It was already fairly dark. The air was cool but not cold, and the sky was clear, allowing one to see the stars. The moon lit up the waters in the distance.

"Have you ever seen anything so lovely?" she sighed in delight, her eyes shining as she looked towards the water. The soft lights illuminated the silver embroidery on her dress and the stones on her necklace.

"Yes," he said, looking down at her meaningfully.

"Oh," she said, catching his meaning. He could see her blush, even in the moonlight. "You are being silly."

"Am I?" he said, his voice tinged with mirth. He could not keep the regret out of his voice. Tomorrow she would be gone. Gone from his life.

"Len and I used to sneak out at night," he said, finally, changing the subject from his own inner turmoil. He looked out over the property. "Sneak out here to play. We knew the main lights would be over there" he gestured towards where their guests were "so we'd sneak here to play in the pond. We would've gotten in awful trouble had we been caught."

"Or gotten hurt," she said.

"Yes, I suppose rules like that are maide for their own good," he mused. "I suppose I'll be just as strict with my own children."

She said nothing.

"If I wanted them," he muttered, stumbling. He stopped, then soldiered on. "Despite rules, childhood can be a lovely time. I am sorry you have no brothers and sisters."

"I had a happy childhood, and I had companions," she reassured him.

"Good," he said, his voice soft. "I don't like to think of you lonely."

He felt terribly lonely now, despite the scads of people about, despite being here with her. Tomorrow they would return to Boston, and he would lose her - and he meant 'lose'. He would stay married to her - he doubted he could marry again after having been with somebody like this - but he would never just stand here again like this, looking out in companionable silence.

She looked up at him, almost as if she understood what he was feeling. Her eyes searched his. He gently ran the knuckles of his left hand along her cheek, then cupped her face in his hand.

He had not kissed her - not properly. He had given her a peck on the cheek at their wedding; he had not even given her a kiss the night he had gone to her bed. A kiss seemed dangerous - more dangerous than anything else he'd done with her. It engaged his emotions.

He kissed her now, gently, and she responded with the same warmth and passion he had come to expect from her. He had not been wrong - this was worse. This was dangerous, this was terror. When he released her, she looked up at him, her eyes searching his. For once, he did not draw away, and let her look for whatever it was she was looking for.

After a long moment of silence, he rubbed her cool fingers in his hands. "I better take you back before you are missed," he murmured.

"Yes." She pulled away from him, then suddenly turned back. "Will you do something for me?"

"Yes." Of course.

"Wait for me in the library?" She gave no other explanation.

He nodded, then carefully walked with her back to the now emptying dining room. Tonight he would anything for her.

And tomorrow he would set her free.

* * *

Jemma was beginning to realize the enormity of the sin she had committed. She had entered a marriage - a marriage! - for money. Phil's words - meant in kindness - had been tearing at her since he had spoken them: "I thought you were some golddigger." She had managed to set aside her feelings for a little while, but they had come back in full force. She had married on the very foolish assumption that she would not have her feelings engaged any more in a temporary marriage than in a temporary employment as a nanny.

She had even convinced herself that, whatever had happened between her and her husband before tonight was not love. Fondness, perhaps. But his kiss just now had shown her something different. She had expected desire and passion from him; she instead had gotten hesitancy and tenderness, words she would have never associated with Grant Douglas Ward.

And now she would suffer the grave consequences of her actions. Her feelings were so deeply engaged with this insane family living in its self-made hell.

Her husband had squeezed her hand gently as he left her at the doorway, headed through the large dining room to the library. She found her father-in-law, chatting amiably with a few guests. She smiled graciously and scoured her mind for their names, then spoke to them with something she remembered they had told her. They were pleased and delighted to have been remembered, and her father-in-law seemed proud. He smiled wide, and did not withdraw when she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

When the conversation ended, they headed off, leaving Jemma with the older Ward. He patted her hand on his elbow. "Well, sweetheart, I don't believe it's an exaggeration to say you've taken New York by storm."

"Perhaps more like a drizzling," Jemma mumbled to herself. He overheard, and laughed. "Dad, will you come to the library with me?"

At that, he raised an eyebrow.

"Please," she said.

"I suppose I can do a couple minutes," he agreed.

Her heart pounded as he escorted her to the library. Her solution to all problem was just to meet them head on. Sometimes she was met with success, sometimes not. This, however, was a disaster she did not know if she could fix. Well, at least, she thought, she couldn't make it worse. Could she?

Her husband was standing by the window, gazing out. He turned when the door opened, a smile on his face - a smile which froze when he saw his father.

"Dad, will you please take a seat?" she said, guiding him to a large armchair in the room. "This one is more comfortable. Do you need anything? A drink?"

John Ward continued to wear the same big smile, but now it was tense. He looked suspiciously at her and then at his son. "No, I'm fine. You can tell me why I'm here, though."

She stepped nervously between the two men, the one seated in the armchair and the one just a couple steps from the window. She took a deep breath. "Grant," she began, "you brought me here five days ago with the sole intention of infuriating your father and defying him. You deliberately married a woman who could bring you no political, social, or economic benefit."

"I never lied to you about that."

"Dad, you have shown affection and generosity with the sole purpose of irritating Grant. Your plan culminated in your gift to me this evening, a gift designed to infuriate your son."

"The necklace is yours. I will not take it back."

"And so you both have succeeded too well," she said. "I, too, have been hurt in this battle, but I am not here to complain about it. You both - you have wounded each other terribly."

"Jemma." Her husband's voice was gentle but tense at the same time. "Wounds assume flesh exists. My father and I both have none."

"Then why choose marriage to me as your method of revenge?" she challenged him. "You had options. You could refuse to come home. You could refuse to be seen with Mae Song. Both would have told your father he could not control you. Why marry me?"

He did not answer for a long time. When he did, his expression was feral. "Because the whole point is to maintain our social standing, to climb higher. To prevent the family from slowly losing its grip. To be as powerful now as before, we're supposed to marry well and produce impeccable children and climb that social ladder. And so I married you - a woman I advertised for, a woman without even a bachelor's degree, who had most likely worked as a nanny for our social peers."

Jemma could see her father-in-law flinch.

"And you, Dad," she replied, turning her same stern tone onto him. "Of all gifts, you chose that diamond necklet to give me. Why that one?"

There was a long silence, just as with his son. They were choosing their words carefully. The older man finally spoke. "It was my wedding gift to her," he began, then fell silent for almost just as long. "It was my love gift to her. And she spurned it - refused it. She entered the marriage as if it were a contract and gave all her love and her affection her children, most notably the eldest. She gave him my gift to her, although it had always been clear that the necklace was hers, and there was a separate set of family heirlooms to go to the eldest son's bride. It was deliberate on her part, to anger me. So I beat him for it, because I never touched her. And I did it again by giving the necklace to the wife he married to infuriate me."

"Love," Grant spat. "You have no idea what the h-ll the word means."

"Believe what you want." His father's words were cold. He turned to Jemma. "And so, sweetheart, I see that you brought us here so that we might reconcile and forgive each other and live peacefully until I die."

Yes. It sounded so utterly naïve and ridiculous when said in John Garrett Ward's cold voice.

"Your wife - your mother - is at the root of all this," she said to them both. "You both love her, and as a result, you hate each other - or believe you do."

Grant snorted derisively. "He did not love her," he disagreed. "She wanted nothing more than to travel, and he kept her here in New York. She did not want children, and besides the four of us, there were so many miscarriages. She was his property, and he knows it."

John gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white. "She lost her lover in a plane crash and could not let it go. She married me to advance her position in society, since she could not have him. I asked only for a son and a daughter, and begged her to stop trying after she miscarried the second time, although we had only you and Len. I even told her she could travel more if she weren't always so ill - I had assumed that motivation would get her to stop trying. "She had signed a contract, she said, and she said she didn't trust me not to keep up my end of the contract to provide for her if she didn't keep up hers. She then made a millstone of her unhappiness and tied it around your neck. Our marriage was between me and her - it should not have concerned anybody else. You were forced to grow up because of the demands she made on you."

"Rather sad when a woman can only turn to her children for understanding," Grant retorted.

"It is," John conceded. "But I never laid a hand on her. I never breathed a single word of criticism about her - to _anybody_ - until tonight. After this I will never say anything again. She was my _wife_ - there is no more intimate relationship than that. And if you ever speak again of _your_ wife the way you did tonight, I hope she divorces you. You don't deserve her."

With that, the conversation ended, and a cold silence fell upon both men.

Jemma finally spoke. "I believe," she said quietly, "that we need to return to our guests. It seems nothing else can be done, although it leaves you both poorer for that." She paused. "But perhaps you realize the other's pain, now."

"I believe, sir," Grant said quietly, "you should head upstairs. The guests are leaving. Jemma and I will take care of the others. I can take you up."

"Call for Dorset," John Ward replied.

Not long after, the manager and her husband came. If they were surprised at the small meeting, they schooled their features not to show it. Jemma impulsively kissed her father-in-law on the cheek as they left. "Good night, Dad." He seemed surprised for a moment, but simply squeezed her hand before leaving.

The minute the doors shut, she found herself caught up in her husband's arms, and his lips against her foreahead in an affectionate kiss. She could feel his lips smile against her skin. "My little crusader," he murmured, his tone one of mirth.

She had half-expected a rant.

"Only you would dare try," he replied, his affection and his amusement quite evident. "Only you would have the gumption to try something like a reconciliation of this magnitude." He smiled against her hair.

"I should not have done," she murmured regretfully. "I have made things worse."

"That's not possible," he replied. "I doubt things could be worse than they already are. You at least had us talking. I have learned things tonight I never knew. But thirty years of damage cannot be repaired in a night."

"He is so ill," she worried.

"Yes. Leave it." He took her by the hand and led her back out to the dining room.

* * *

It was quite late when the final guests left. Len and Celia headed home, and the Songs went up their rooms. Phil stayed a little, but Jemma had everything in hand, so he bid her and Grant good-night and left, promising to check on Ada before he went to bed.

Jemma padded about in her stocking feet, clearly tired but determined to see the clean-up through to the end. Aunt Victoria watched like a hawk, monitoring her progress but allowing her full reign as hostess. When everything had finally been cleared and packed away (and bottles smashed), and the hired staff had departed, the older woman turned to her. "You acquitted yourself well tonight," she said, passing judgment. "You learn quickly and conducted yourself brilliantly."

The younger woman flushed a little at the praise.

"There is still much to learn - everything from pairs of sheets for beds, porcelain services, designing your own menus, hiring staff, placement for dinners, to name just a few. Your husband is the Ward heir, and your mother-in-law is deceased, so all this falls to you. We will start those lessons soon."

Jemma winced, almost unconsciously; Victoria caught it and raised an eyebrow.

The younger woman smiled weakly. No doubt her new aunt thought her reluctant to learn and to take over these duties; while there was some element of truth to that, her dismay was due to far worse. She could not tell her new tutor that she would not need any of these lessons since she was not really going to be Grant Ward's wife and not really a part of this family, whatever she pretended. The weight of her conscience came crashing back down upon her, but it was not a burden she could share with anybody else.

It was already two-thirty am. They would rest, and then Grant would get their things packed to depart the next day - rather, later that morning. He needed to say his goodbyes to everybody - including to his father.

"Let's go," he finally said to his wife, watching her droop in exhaustion. "You are tired." He took her shoes in one hand and carefully wrapped his other arm around her, steadying her as they headed upstairs.

She was already half-asleep as she took off her jewelry and make-up and changed. At one point, she weaved a little, as sleepy as she was. He carried her to her bed and lay her in it; on second thought, he climbed in with her. He needed her - not physically, but just to be near her.

She blinked at him blearily, then smiled. "Just sleep," he whispered, pulling the sheets up around her. He carefully tucked her against him, and she was asleep almost instantly - as was he.

The sun was already up when there was banging on his door. He jumped, and Jemma was instantly awake. It was Dorset. "What is it?"

The housekeeper looked tense. "Mr. Ward rang for me," she began. "Emergency. But I can't get the door open."

Grant frowned, looking at her with concern. He threw on a tee-shirt over his pyjama shorts and raced down the hallway. "Dad." He knocked harder. "Dad!"

There was a loud thump to the floor. Grant shook his head at that, grabbing at the keys in the housekeeper's hands. He unlocked the doors, but there was a bolt from the inside. He took a deep breath, then jumped and slammed his foot against the door, the doorposts ripping off inside as he hurried in. His father lay on the ground, having rolled out his bed, his face red as he heaved for breath.

"Grant?" Jemma appeared in the doorway, then rushed in to take charge. "Get him on his back!" The couple rolled John Ward onto his back, and she felt for a pulse. "Do you have an AED? And call A&E!"

The housekeeper nodded and rushed out. A few minutes later, Phil appeared, hauling the AED. In the doorway was also Victoria.

"He kept refusing to keep the machine in his room," Phil explained as they set it on the ground, nearly ripping the box open. Grant was busy opening his father's shirt. "So Dorset hid it in my room."

"Excellent thinking," Jemma replied as she slapped the pads onto the correct positions on John's chest. "Clear." Grant and Phil pulled their hands back. She jumped the man's heart. Nothing. "Recharging!" She paused as the machine whirred up. "Clear." She jumped it again. This time, there was a faint heartbeat. She looked up at her husband, who looked back at her with grim stoicism but worried shock in his eyes. "This is not good," she whispered. "He needs a doctor."

"EMTs are on their way," Victoria replied, and distantly, sirens could be heard.

"Dad." Grant leaned over to his father, patting his cheek. "Dad, look at me." John Ward slowly opened his eyes, managing to look at his eldest son. "OK. He's still responsive." His father reached for his hand, his fingers gripping his. "OK, Dad. Just hang on."

Within a couple minutes, EMTs were bounding up the stairs. The Songs were in the hallway, clearing it as the EMTs rushed out with the stretcher, Grant holding his father's hand, racing alongside. Jemma ran out with him. "I'll catch up," she shouted over the sound of the engine. She rushed back to the house as the ambulance tore away. In the doorway were Dorset and her husband, the Songs, Victoria, and Phil.

"I'll pack a bag to bring to Grant," Jemma said, all in a rush. "And Dad's medical file is in our room."

"Don't forget Grant's phone and other stuff," Phil said, even as he started back into the house. "I'll have the car brought around."

"Len - "

"I'll take care of Len and Celia," Victoria cut in. "Make sure you don't forget the paperwork. I will call John's primary care physician. Go. Quickly."

Jemma nodded, starting to run into the house when she saw Ada standing in the corner, her stuffed dog clutched to her chest in silent panic. "Oh, sweetheart," Jemma whispered softly, quickly wrapping comforting arms around her. "Are you scared?"

Ada said nothing but flung her arms around Jemma's waist, grabbing fistfuls of her shirt in her small hands. She was shaking.

Victoria crossed the threshhold in two strides and quickly pulled the girl away from Jemma. "Go, now," she said sternly. Jemma blinked and opened her mouth to protest when the older woman continued, "I'll have her dressed and ready to go when you leave."

Jemma blinked, momentarily surprised, and then nodded gratefully before she ran back into the house.

* * *

His father had suffered another heart attack. He had a do-not-resuscitate, but he was in the ICU, with help breathing.

Phil and Jemma and Ada had arrived not long after, Ada clutching her stuffed animal in one hand and Jemma with the other. They had brought his things and his father's file and a change of clothes. Phil had sat with Ada, reading a book his aunt had packed for her as Jemma stood with him, listening to what the doctors had to report. An hour after, Len and Celia arrived with Aunt Victoria, and that was everybody.

Grant wandered out to the waiting room. His family stood, and Jemma came over. "He wants to see everybody. Then he wants the hospital to honor the DNR. Adults only." He indicated the doorway. As they filed out, Jemma squeezed his hand. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing," he mumbed. "If they pull his breathing tube, he'll just pant for breath and suffocate until everything shuts down."

She squeezed his hand. "There is a difference," she reassured him softly. "You are not hastening his death by injecting him with something. You are simply allowing nature to take its course, in its timing. That is not the same thing."

He frowned for a moment, then nodded. "Ada will not be permitted to see him."

She nodded. "I know. Let me see if I can speak to somebody."

His eyes flickered to her, then to the floor, then back to her. He nodded.

~| tw |~

Grant waited quietly at the side as his family approached. His aunt went first, doing nothing but squeezing John Ward's hand in a handshake - perhaps fitting, Grant thought. His aunt and his father had been, in some ways, almost colleagues in how the family was run.

Len and Celia were next, both pale and quiet. His father seemed to be writing something with his finger in Len's hand; he simply squeezed Celia's. Then was Phil, whose hand he held for a long time.

They headed out, and he could see his own wife waiting at the doorway. She smiled at them all and squeezed Celia's hand. She then came in, a hospital manager with her. Ada had on a hospital gown and her face was covered with a mask. "A few minutes," Jemma mouthed, even as another hospital employee followed them in.

Ada trembled when she saw her father in the bed. Jemma hugged her and held tightly to her hand. "Say good-bye to your father, love," she whispered. "See, he is looking at you."

Ada blinked back tears. "Daddy?" her voice was small.

His breathing was labored, even with help. He raised his right hand, tilting his head to her, fumbling for her hand. Jemma carefully guided it to grip Ada's. Grant could see tears in his father's eyes.

He seemed to be writing something. When Ada looked to Jemma in confusion, Jemma placed her own hand in her father-in-law's, waiting for him to scrawl letters into her palm. "He says you are as beautiful as your mum," Jemma smiled at Ada. "And he is sad not to see you grow up. But Grant will take care of you." She squeezed the little girl's hand encouragingly. "Go ahead and say your good-byes, sweetheart."

"Good-bye, Daddy," Ada whispered, her voice small. "I promise I will be good for Grant. And I will play piano every day."

John Ward squeezed her hand, and Ada wiped tears from her face, then let go and buried her face in Jemma's shirt.

"Dad." Jemma clutched the cold hand in hers. "I know I was not what you wanted for Grant, but you were kind to me. Thank you, and I will remember it, with love," she whispered.

He grabbed at her hand, surprising her. Grant watched as his father turned intense eyes on his newest daughter-in-law, writing something into her palm with his index finger. Whatever it was caused her eyes to fill with tears, and she smiled and whispered something to her father-in-law and kissed him on the forehead.

She turned to go, gently holding Ada's hand as she led her outside. She quietly knelt to say something to the child, who nodded vigorously. Phil reappeared in the doorway and took his younger sister by the hand, and they left.

Grant could not help the small relief he felt when she came back into the room. She slipped her hand into his, and Grant nodded to the nurse. They waited for interminable minutes before the nurse indicated they were about to remove the tube. As it came out, John Ward wheezed and hacked. "D-ng, that's terrible," he muttered, even as he coughed.

Grant gave a tearful snort - that was his father, through and through.

Jemma squeezed his hand and then slipped her hand out of his and quietly left the room, leaving them alone.

Grant sat down in the chair next to the bed, and carefully took his father's hand in his own. It was cold. "I - " he swallowed. "You know I have loved you. And I could not have hated you so much if I hadn't loved you."

His father's eyes seemed, oddly, more alive now than before. He turned his head to him, his breath short. His hand squeezed Grant's, almost painfully. "You have always been my favorite," he whispered. "Just as you were your mother's favorite. But I was a terrible father to you." The statement seemed to pain him. "We were not good parents to you. But she - your wife is a good person, and will be a good wife and a good mother. Listen to her. You made a far better choice than I did, and you chose for yourself far better than your mother or I chose for you. There will be mutual love in your marriage. I envy you - how much I envy you. You have not succeeded in angering me."

The small speech seemed to tire the older Ward out, and he lay back. His son watched him for awhile, and he could not stop the sting of tears. He hated tears, and he hated shedding tears for this man he had hated - and loved. Still, he was unable to stop them streaming down his face. He lay his head down on the bed and felt his father's hand twitch, then come to rest on his head. Blessing. Seeking and giving forgiveness.

He could hear the beat of the monitors, indicating that his father's heartbeat was slowing. The nurse brought Len and Phil back in for the last few moments.

The raspy breathing continued, and then it stopped.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

Thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review! An extra chapter to tide you over to Friday, which will be the final chapter.

* * *

The hospital paperwork went more quickly than anybody anticipated. Grant arrived home a few hours after the others. He was met at the door by his brothers and his sister-in-law, his aunt, and the Songs, who spoke to him in turn. After them came the Ward employees: Dorset and her husband, the gardener, the maids, and a few others, who all murmured their condolences.

Jemma was also standing there, waiting patiently through it all. It was obvious to her that, despite Grant's assurances the previous few days, they would not be leaving today. Ada kept turning to her for comfort, and it had only been exhaustion that had caused the little girl to crawl into bed an hour ago and be separated from Jemma.

Grant finally reached her, the others having left and the foyer now empty. He suddenly seemed very tired, but he still smiled at her. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes so bright and full of compassion, and cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs gently brushing over the dried tears on his face. She pulled his head down to meet hers, gently kissing him. "I am so sorry, Grant," she murmured. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his head against hers, relaxing into her embrace. For somebody so small, she was so strong.

There was a small voice. "Jemmie?"

They pulled apart to see Ada standing in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes, still clutching her stuffed animal.

He walked over and went into the next sitting room right off the foyer and sat down, exhausted. Jemma came, leading Ada. His wife smiled at him, then gently prompted the little girl forward before quietly departing. Ada came up to him, uncertainly, and he picked up his little sister and sat her in his lap. "Dad is gone," he said softly. "It was peaceful. And quick."

Ada blinked at him.

"I'll be here with you," he promised - not an empty one, but an emotional confirmation of the legal guardianship already given to him. On his eighteenth birthday, his parents had named him Phil's guardian in the event of their deaths; they had added Ada's name to that guardianship when his mother had safely entered the last month of her pregnancy. He had always been his family's protector, no matter how he might have felt or even wished.

Ada was quiet, just looking at him. He hoped she believed his promise. She had had her little heart broken so many times already.

"You'll be safe with me. And of course Len and Celia and the boys and the baby always love you, as does Phil." Grant gently brushed her hair from her face. He had been the first to hold her after she was born - even before their own parents had. "I had to go away, but I was always thinking of you."

She tilted her head. "Really?"

"Yes." He wrapped his arms around her.

"Are you going to be like my daddy? Like Len is with Grant and Clark and Kitty? Or a brother like Phil?"

"Which one do you want?" he asked gently.

"Daddy," she said, so quickly and decisively there was little question what she wanted.

He held her for a moment, unable to speak. She might as well have been an orphan, he thought. While he did not hate his father any more, Grant was under no illusions as to the man's inability to be a proper father. Ada would have been lonely, with no mother and an absent father. "Then that's who I am," he promised quietly.

He thought back to his previous life, the one he had been so keen to maintain just a week ago. It was not to be, he thought. He had responsibilities he could not avoid. If he ditched them he would be miserable.

"And Jemmie will be like my mommy?" Ada asked hopefully.

Grant closed his eyes. How could he tell her? It was going to kill her when Jemma left. How could she ever understand? He swallowed and smiled weakly. "Do you want her as your mother?" he asked, sidestepping the question.

"Grant and Clark and Kitty have Celia," she replied, a little wistfully. "I have nobody."

The matter-of-fact tone in which she'd said those words were more cutting than if Ada had cried. She had simply accepted her parentless state without complaint, even when it was so clear what she wanted. Grant hugged his sister close. How could he promise something he himself could not give? He couldn't force his wife into something she had never agreed to do. "Jemma loves you, so much," he whispered. That much was true.

"I know," Ada said, with sweet assurance. "She told me. She told me Daddy loved me, too, even if he never said it. She said a lot of people don't know how to say it." She beamed. "Daddy said I looked like Mama."

Grant swallowed. He doubted his father had spent much time with this child at all. She envied Len and Celia's children for what they had, but he had never seen her act out of jealousy - or bitterness towards her own father. And Jemma had ensured she would not do so in the future.

"He loved you," he whispered in her ear. "You were his little girl. And now you are mine."

~| tw |~

Grant was late to dinner, but not so late that it wasn't held up for him. He sat at the head of the table, his aunt to his right; he looked down the table and saw Phil and Ada, the Songs, his aunt, even Len and Celia. He had wanted to run, but one does not outrun one's past. He had thought he could and had lost himself in the process. Perhaps Trip was right, too: that in trying so hard to be the exact opposite of how he was raised, his old life continued to entrap him. Now he knew who he was, and he was now learning to accept it. One could embrace a loving past; one would learn from a difficult one.

He was Grant Ward. He had always been. He had never been free from them.

Yet today, the first day when all his new repsonsbilities bore down on him, he felt freer than ever. It was not because his father had passed. It was because he had learned who he was, finally.

Jemma had always known who she was. It was why she had always been so free to be herself.

He looked down the table at her, where she was in the hostess's seat, conversing quietly with the Songs. Ada was seated right next to her at the head of the table, leaning on her, playing quietly with her napkin.

"You have made an excellent choice in your marriage."

Grant wanted her to stay. Desperately, he wanted her to stay. But he could not force her to do so - not that she was the sort to be forced. If he loved her - and he did - he must set her free and let her choose...and hope that she would choose to stay with him.

It wasn't completely hopeless. Despite all he'd done, she was merciful and possessed of more warm love than anybody he had known. He knew that any hope of her staying was more because of who Jemma was than any self-assurance he had.

* * *

It was late when Grant finally managed to at least get the basic funeral arrangements done. He wandered down to the kitchen for a late-night snack and was enjoying the quiet as he ate his sandwich. He was part-way through when his aunt came in. "Len and Celia went home," she began, in that curt, business-like tone of hers. "Ada is in bed and asleep. Phil is in his room. I'll be headed to bed soon, as well."

Grant nodded.

"Jemma is out by the pond." Grant's eyes flickered up to her at that, but she just gave him a look. "She slipped out when she thought nobody was looking."

Of course his aunt noticed.

The older woman looked at him steadily, her steely eyes calmly assessing him. Grant was amused by the thought that Victoria Staunton-Hand could still, with one look, reduce him to feeling like he was five again. She sat down across from him, her back straight, looking like a queen on her throne. She finally spoke.

"I loved my sister," she said. "I thought she was far too good for your father. And him? I still don't like him, even if he is dead. But I was under no delusions as to how she entered this marriage." She paused for a moment, letting her words sink in. "Catherine married John because the man she wanted had died; she then spent her whole life punishing him for something he had nothing to do with. She never gave him a chance to win her over, never bothered to try to make the marriage work. She gave him nothing and flaunted their own children at him, showing them love and giving him not even the basic respect due a human being."

Grant was silent, his sandwich forgotten on the plate.

"Your father was a blithering idiot, stupid enough to hitch his wagon to this, despite knowing the truth," his aunt continued, contempt in her voice. "He thought he could change her mind, that if he gave her his loyalty she would reward it. When she didn't, he became bitter and lashed out - took it out on his children, punishing innocents for a crime they had nothing to do with."

She looked at her eldest nephew with a steady gaze. "Your brothers suffered from their parents' neglect. Your sister was abandoned. But you - you were made a pawn in their disgusting game, tossed back and forth between them. They even roped Celia and Mae into that battle and nearly destroyed Leonard and Phillip in the process." When Grant raised an eyebrow at that comment, his aunt huffed. "I am not an idiot, Grant. I have eyes."

She paused a moment. "I see the damage Catherine and John did to you; I see their manipulativeness in your behavior. I saw you and John using Jemma as the pawn in your battle. But I also see the Grant who took his familial responsibilities seriously - who protected his brothers and held his infant sibling when her own parents did not. I expect you to be the latter."

She got off the stool and stood. "You chose well, Grant," she said firmly. "Whatever my feelings before, I now approve of your wife. She is strong - far stronger than I initially gave her credit for. There are few who could last a battle between you and your father; she not only did it, she changed the terms of the war. Jemma will be the making of you - if you will let her work. You must not kill that spirit in her; it is the one thing this house has been sorely lacking."

Satisfied her point had been made, his aunt turned heel and left, leaving her stunned nephew alone in the kitchen.

~| tw |~

Jemma was, indeed, sitting by the lake. She was even dressed in dark clothes, he thought in amusement, to hide all the better. She was good at that.

She jumped slightly when she approached. "Oh. I did not think I was missed."

"You were seen," he replied, his voice tinged with mirth. His aunt saw all. "Tired?"

"A little." She was tense, he noted. Unusually quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, taking her hand. "This was not at all part of our bargain."

She did not relax.

"It was peaceful at the end," he said at last, thoughtfully. "And I believe Dad and I came to an understanding. We both thought about what was said earlier in the library."

She stiffened visibly, her hand growing clammy in his.

Now he was concerned. Something was wrong. "Jemma?" he asked.

There was a long silence. Then: "I should not have done," she said, and her voice shook.

"Done what?" he frowned, confused.

"Your little crusader." She repeated his words back to him, her voice flat but still shaking with emotion. "I made your father come to the library, and I made him talk to you, and it was a horrible scene of bitterness and anger and it was all for nothing. It was not my business, like you said. It as not part of our bargain, as you said. I am not your wife, and this is not my family, and I interfered and stressed him and now he's dead!"

Grant gaped for a moment, stunned. He stared at her. "You're joking!" When she said nothing, he asked incredulously, "Right? You're joking?"

Her jaw was clamped shut, most likely to teh point of pain. Still, he could feel her trembling.

She blamed herself. She blamed herself! He squeezed her hand, pulling her close to him and trying to be as comforting as he could. She was blaming herself for something which was nowhere near being her fault. "Jemma," he said, his voice soft. "In the long list of things that were stressing him, that meeting in the library was hardly anything. There were millions of stressful things we shouldn't have done - Dad shouldn't have invited the Songs, started a new business partnership, kept going in his business, tried to expand Len and Celia's operation, set me up in some relationship, tried to throw a huge party he didn't have the energy to host. I shouldn't have done what I did to piss him off. His heart was bad - he knew it. That's why he called me home."

He took a deep breath. He had not meant to share what his father had said to him, but he could not allow her to believe she had been at fault. "What you did last night was the one thing he - we both should have done. We - cleared the air. We could not fix the last years of damage - nobody can. But we could forgive. We nearly missed our opportunity, Jemma, had you not pushed us."

Jemma said nothing, but Grant could feel her tension dissipate slowly; she relaxed against him.

They sat in silence for a long time, and then Grant said softly, "He was not wrong, you know." He paused. "I loved my mother, but I felt overwhelmed. She told me everything that was happening and I was helpless to do anything to fix it. And I did know about the man she wanted to marry - I know more about him than I wanted to know. But I did not know she agreed to that kind of business marriage with my father."

He felt disloyal to his mother's memory for saying it, but perhaps he owed his father something also. He had sided with his mother always, but perhaps he hadn't seen everything; after all, his aunt, his mother's sister, had been scathing on both, not just on his father. "Perhaps - I don't know. I guess their marriage problems should have been discussed between themselves first, not with her children."

"Your mother demanded too much of your affection," his wife said quietly. "And your father too little. But I believe your father did love her once, however imperfectly and badly."

"I had always blamed him for their marriage," he said quietly. "But perhaps she was at fault, too. She complained to me endlessly about him and punished him for not being the man she had wanted." He paused. "And Dad wasn't wrong, you know. He never said a bad thing about her to us - ever. Not even a comment on a personality trait. I never thought about it until now."

She squeezed his hand. "Your mother was unhappy, Grant," she said quietly. "And unhappiness runs so deep. And despite what your parents have said, only the two of them know for sure what their marriage was. And she suffered. She lost the man she loved. She suffered miscarriages. She barely got to see the daughter she finally had, and she did not get to see her children grow up. You must not forget that, either."

Grant looked down at his wife for a long time. She looked up at him, her face open: sadness, beauty, compassion. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with wonder. "How do you show such mercy?" he murmured. "Do you believe so deeply in the good of humanity?"

She shook her head. "No," she said softly. "I do not - not at all. But I am well aware that I am and can be just as wrong and terrible as anybody else."

And so from there flowed her mercy. But he could not agree with her self-assessment. "I don't believe you capable of that," he chuckled.

She did not seem to share his amusement. "I am going to take a home and a new car and half a million dollars from you, and be cared for for the rest of my life," she replied, her tone flat, as if that made her point about being horrible.

"You are my wife," he said quietly. "That is not taking. That is marriage."

She was tense again. He took her hand and led her inside, where he tucked her into bed, then climbed in after her. Within minutes they were asleep.

* * *

Her husband had relieved her first anxiety. It seemed clear to Jemma that the direct stressor that led to her father-in-law's death was that night meeting where she had dredged up bad memories. John Ward had been so pleased and relaxed leading up to that disastrous meeting in the library - and then after it, he'd promptly gone to bed and had a heart attack. But perhaps it was as Grant said: there were a myriad of other things which were stressing him as well.

But the second anxiety her husband had inadvertently sharpened.

She could not talk to him about it. Nor could she talk to herself out of it. Rather, her guilt grew by the hour, and there were constant reminders - like what he had said last night about his parents' business marriage, and about her. And then there were Phil's words - meant kindly in their ignorance.

_"I thought you were some gold-digger."_

She had wrongly agreed to be complicit in mocking one of the oldest, most sacred instutitions of civilization, marrying and repeating all the vows without any intention of keeping them. Even the Triplett twins had not been comfortable doing it, and Antoine Triplett was only serving as a witness. And she had done all this for money.

She could rationalize it and say she did it for her family, but regardless of how wonderful her motive was, there was no point in calling a skunk anything prettier.

And the sins multiplied from the first. Her father-in-law had begged her - his last words to her, scrawled letter by letter in her palm - to love and care for Grant. Now the senior Ward was gone, and so he could be spared the knowledge that his eldest son would still be as alone as ever, and childless. And Ada - Ada! The little girl loved her, perhaps right now even more than she loved Grant. It would be irreparable, the harm done to her. At least John Ward wouldn't have to see either happen.

And then Len and Celia - Len, who reminded her so much of her own brother, and Celia, who had welcomed her with open arms as a sister. Their children, her niece and her nephews. Phil, who had been so kind to her. Even her husband's aunt and then Dorset, who had both warmed to her over the weeks she was here. She had deceived them all. Jemma Fitzsimmons was a total fraud.

And a gold-digger, if one called a spade a spade.

There was only one thing to do. It could not right all the wrongs - especially with Ada. Nor could it fix the past, as her husband had said. But if she could show her remorse for the great sin she had committed against them, then perhaps they could forgive her, sometime. It was the only honorable thing to do, the only thing which would quiet her conscience.

The funeral was in the morning, and then the burial. After lunch, Ada went to take a nap, still tired from the events of the last couple days. There were still a few guests in the house from the funeral, older ones chatting with Aunt Victoria. Phil was with the Songs, and Len and Celia at their home.

Jemma packed her bag - it was light enough for her to haul herself - and left.

She was going home - alone. She had left her husband a letter but listed no destination. She knew he would come for her if she gave any indication of where she was going; he would send her money, make sure she had a good home and all the things in the agreement. And she might not be strong enough to resist the temptation to take them.

She had married and performed all the duties of her marriage while it lasted. And although the agreement had not said to, she intended to stay married to Grant Ward until death parted them permanently. Perhaps in the future she could forgive herself for marrying with the full knowledge that she was only doing it for a few weeks. But she could never forgive herself for taking payment. She could not take from him, not in this way, and keep true to who she was.

Marriage was commitment. Love. Care. Family.

Marriage was not employment.

Standing in the road at the bottom of the hill, she looked back at the house one last time, tears stinging her eyes. She hoped desperately that they would forgive her for what she had done in deceiving them.

And one day, Jemma hoped, she could forgive herself.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Temporary Wife**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1. Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1. An allusion to "Lewis". "SkyeMiles" was a hilarious quip from youtube panel review of "Girl in the Flower Dress".

We're here at the end. I want to reiterate again that the main story - and the big events/scenes - is not mine but came from Mary Balogh's Regency novel, _The Temporary Wife_, and I've just adapted it for our "SHIELD" characters. lloydgrints and anonymous-lemonade have made wonderful picture edits to go with the story:  
- jemmasmmnsDOTtumblrDOTcomSLASHpostSLASH96629492069SLASH  
- sapphireglyphsDOTtumblrDOTcomSLASHpostSLASH97310558213SLASH

And, while I've said it each time, I do mean it: thank you to everybody who took the time to read and to review, and for your encouragement. I hope that you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have and that the ending satisfies.

* * *

He was, Grant thought, a veritable a**. How the $#%^ had his own wife left him after the funeral and he did not notice until mid-morning the next day?

Jemma had told the household manager that she was feeling rather tired and not to expect her for dinner. He was busy with the Songs and his own family and then the endless paperwork, so he had worked in the library until late, not wanting to turn in if it would bother her. When he got back late to their rooms, her door was shut and the light was out, so he slept on the couch so as not to wake her. He had hoped that she had not exhausted herself to the point of illness; he had not meant to tax her like this.

Now, he wished fervently that she was sick in bed. It would mean she was still here.

He was up before dawn. He gave Dorset specific directions to make sure she set aside breakfast for Jemma in case she was still not feeling well. He then shut himself in his father's office to try to deal with the financial fallout from his death; he and his father's financial advisors had a public statement released before the bell opening that day's trading, hoping it would keep the stocks from falling too much. Satisfied that those problems were in hand, he then went to look after his family - to talk to Phil about Mae and then to see to Ada.

Ada asked eagerly for Jemma - and that was when Grant learned nobody had seen her since yesterday before dinner. Dorset had not been called to bring breakfast, nor had Jemma come downstairs to eat anything.

He instantly dropped what he was doing and rushed upstairs. He rapped quietly on the door. "Jemma." When he got no response, he rapped a little harder, spoke a little more loudly. "Jemma."

When there was no response, he quietly opened the door.

She was not there. The bed was made, and there was an envelope on it. Panicked, he rushed to the closet, to find all her own clothes and her bag gone. Everything she had purchased with Celia was still there, in the bags, with the receipts on them, all arranged nicely. Sitting on one of the closet shelves were the cell phone and the tablet he had given her their very first day here. In addition, the papers she had been reading were nowhere to be seen. He rifled through the writing desk in the vain hope they were in one of the drawers.

Gone.

He rushed to the bathroom. Her toothbrush and her cup were still there, and for a split second he felt relief - before he realized that _he_ had provided those things. He rifled through the shelves, items falling to the floor as he swept them off in his frenzied search. Her hairbrush was gone. Her lotion was gone. Gone, gone, gone.

In a panic, he rushed back to the bedroom, yanking the letter off the bed and tearing it open.

_"Dear Grant: _ _I will be leaving this afternoon. I quite honestly hope you do not see this soon enough, because I know you will wish to honor your half of the contract. Please do not try to find me. I release you from your part of the agreement. I do not want payment for what I have done here. It would be distasteful to me. _ _I am taking my own belongings. I cannot resist taking my dress, too, and my pearls - they are so beautiful, and they were such a lovely gift. I know you will not mind. I have also taken some of the money I found on the desk in your room, for a ticket and food. Again, I do not believe you will mind. This is all I ever will take from you. _ _Please tell Ada I love her. She will not believe you, but please, please find some way to convince her. _ _With all my love, most sincerely,  
Jemma Fitzsimmons."_

He stood stock still, stunned, for what seemed an eternity. He suddenly crumpled the letter and flung it at the far wall in anger, then swung about in fury. He was unable to think for a full minute. He finally sank to the floor, hands running through his hair in defeated frustration, his knees drawn up to his chest and his back against the bed - their bed.

She was his wife - his to protect and to care for, even if he passed before her. If she chose to live separately from him, so be it, but he was hers. She had written of honor - but she would not let him retain his, having run away when she had. And run away it was.

There was no time to dawdle. Forty-eight hours, he'd once been told, before a missing person became exponentially more difficult to find. While he doubted he had to worry about Jemma being kidnapped and killed, he was not excited about his prospects of finding her. He was already - he looked at his watch - fifteen hours behind her. Where was she?

Grant was horrified to realize he did not know a thing about his bride - including where she would have gone.

His first instinct was to start searching immediately, even though he did not have a destination. But he could not. He had responsibilities now. Jemma had more than fulfilled hers; he could not just forget his. The Songs were leaving after lunch; he had promised Phil to talk to Cole Song. His aunt was leaving for a business meeting in Toronto at the same time. He had to arrange for somebody to watch Ada -

Ada. He would have to tell her something.

Besides, Jemma had stated quite explicitly she did not want him coming for her. She did not want his support. She wanted to cut ties with him. He knew he did not leave that much cash around; he doubted it was even enough money to get very far. She had her pearls, but he knew if he looked in his drawer the diamond necklet his father had given would still be there. Grant had intended to give it back to her as a gift, from both of his now late parents and from himself.

She did not want him. She preferred poverty and freedom to him. It was blindingly hurtful.

Did she believe that he could just move on with his life? Grin in relief that she was gone? Just cheerfully forget her and move on?

He hated her suddenly.

He spoke to the Songs, telling them Jemma was not well and sent her apologies. He spoke privately to Cole and Hu Juan, reiterating his willingness to continue his father's financial partnership in some capacity, and hinting broadly that he hoped the family would still come together, as Phil and Mae seemed quite close. The father was not pleased, and the mother just raised an eyebrow.

Grant spoke to Mae privately. For all their fathers' scheming, it was good to clear the air. He found his suspicions confirmed: she was was rather similar in personality to himself, taciturn and unwilling to speak; the similarities made it both easier and so much harder to speak to her. He personally invited her to visit with her parents, especially whenever Phil was in town. He did not miss the spark in her eyes - just a brief moment before they shuttered again - when Phil's name came up. He also mentioned, knowing that she would pass it on to her parents, that he was the executor of his father's estate and a great amount of stocks and financial investments would be settled on his youngest brother, so he would not be a penniless soldier. Not that, he thought, Mae seemed to need or to want those things.

Phil would return to training soon, leaving no family in the house. Grant decided to put Ada with Len and Celia, for them to watch while he was gone. She had agreed to the arrangement quite cheerfully, as long as she could come back and practice her piano every day - like Daddy and Jemma would have wanted.

He swallowed, then knelt in front of her, holding her hand. Len and Celia stood nearby. "Ada," he said quietly. He did not know how to tell the truth without making Jemma seem heartless; the fact that she had never intended to stay, although she loved Ada, would still devastate the little girl. He wished desperately he could speak the truth and still have Ada know how much Jemma loved her, but he just didn't know how. He settled for second best and hoped Ada could forgive him the lie. "Jemma had to go away suddenly. Her...aunt is sick."

Ada blinked. "Oh."

"She wanted me to tell you good-bye for her, and that she loves you very, very much." This was not a lie - far, far from it.

Ada smiled.

Grant swallowed, trying to compose himself. He did not know what would happen if he could not find Jemma. He did not know what would happen if he found her and she did not want to return with him.

He did not wait. He flew back to Boston that very night and was met at the airport by a grim-looking Mark Lockwood.

* * *

Jemma had taken the Long Island train into New York City, and that had eaten up a good chunk of money. She stopped at an ATM and surreptitiously took out four hundred dollars, leaving just a pittance in her checking account, just enough not to bounce.

She had calculated what it would take to get home, and the cheapest was to take the Greyhound bus. It would take three days to get to Idaho, but she could do that. As she waited for her bus, she walked out and purchased a large box of Cheerios and some fruit from a local convenience store.

She had been just a couple hours into the trip when it all sank in: what had happened and whom she was leaving behind. The emotion bowled her over. She had been unable to stop the tears, and the teen sitting next to her had used that opportunity to put his arm around her, basically using comfort as an excuse to hit on her. He'd gotten a punch in the face from the elderly woman sitting across the aisle. She had soon found the little old lady sitting next to her, giving her a tissue from her endless supply.

Jemma could not make her words sound right. She could not make Grant sound heartless. Her seat companion ended up believing that her husband had died suddenly, a permanent separation - perhaps not as far from the truth as she was led to believe.

It was a long, tiring trip as it was, and Jemma felt weighed down even more with her sadness. When she called Penny from the Idaho Falls bus station, she could hear shrieking and cheering on the other end. Her patience was rewarded in due time: she had never seen as lovely sight as that dented, sixteen-year-old Toyota Corolla rolled into sight. The children sitting in the back were bouncing in excitement, the trunk of the car going up and down with their motions, even though they were wearing their seatbelts. The minute Penny opened the doors to let them out, they went rushing towards her, squealing in delight. It was a balm to her scarred heart.

"Well," Jemma said with a smile, "I am home, finally, and I have missed you so much. Let me just have a minute to myself."

Once home, Penny shooed away the eager young chatterboxes to give her sister some privacy. Jemma had a good cry and then washed her face.

Over tea and cookies, she told her family that she had not liked her employment, and so was coming to stay with them just a little bit before trying again. It was not a complete untruth, but it was not the whole truth, either. At least now, Jemma thought, she would not have to lie any more.

She was home to lick her wounds. Doing the right thing was never easy, she thought. But she had done it, and while sad, her heart no longer felt guilty.

* * *

If he wasn't a d-mn Ward, he'd stand in the middle of the station and scream. Throw things. Break things. How could every travel attendent, cop, and ticket salesperson have missed her? How could they not have seen her?

Still, Grant knew he was being unfair, which was why he didn't do any of this. A month ago he would have threatened, but not now. He knew how well his wife could make herself blend into the wall. Four weeks prior, he would have passed her over just as everybody now had. He couldn't blame them for falling for the same schtick he had.

Grant was reaping the consequences of Jemma's ability to hide, to fade into the background. He had assumed Jemma would head back to Boston: it was her home, and the amount of money he had in his desk was enough to get her there but not farther. Unfortunately, none of the ferries from Long Island back north seemed to have seen her. He then tried New York's Port Authority; Mark learned from a street performer and a homeless man that she had indeed been there. It was not an especially comforting fact. She was seen using an ATM, which meant she had cash to travel. In addition, once she was in the huge transportation hub, she could go anywhere. Given how non-descript she could make herself, and how many people went through that hub at any time, she could be on her d-mn way to California.

He returned to Boston, despairing. He had hoped to catch his wife in time and failed. Now he was in for a long, arduous search. Mark laid out a deeper, more thorough plan to go through all they knew of Jemma, to dig into her background, in order to develop a list of possible destinations. She hadn't returned home, but she had met Grant in Boston and searched for a house in the city, so she had some ties there. They would use those to track her down.

Grant started by looking for her original lodgings, but even that wasn't easy. She had listed a PO Box on her résumé, but the grouchy and supercilious civil servant refused to give out her address no matter how much he threatened and no matter how much money he offered. He sighed. He appreciated the general honesty of American government officials, but what an inconvenient time for him.

He'd never been to her home himself; he'd always sent Mark to get her. For the first time, Mark's knowledge of Boston was a hindance; he knew the streets of Boston so well he hadn't bothered using a GPS, and he couldn't remember the address. The older man still found the place fairly easily - locating where she had lived was different. Apparently Jemma had always met and was dropped off by Mark on the sidewalk; how close to her actual home she had been standing he didn't know.

Asking around took several hours. It seemed that Jemma was a veritable ghost. Given the fact that she was a live-in nanny and most likely wasn't in the neighborhood that much, and given how non-descript she'd made herself when he first met her, Grant wasn't surprised. She was not living in any of the apartment buildings; a few of the houses which appeared to have separate apartments also didn't rent to her. A few seemed to know her by name or by description, but they staunchly refused to say anything. One old lady slammed the door in his face.

Mark had the gall to look amused.

It was nearing evening when they finally hit the jackpot. They knocked on a door and it opened to reveal an elderly Indian couple. Turned out both their son and their daughter-in-law were professors, at MIT and Boston University respectively. Did they know Jemma? It was clear they did, but the man refused to say anything and shut the door in their faces.

Grant was standing on the street, facing the car, feeling exhausted and not just a little frustrated. Mark was scrolling through his phone, trying to find a few more places they might ask, when they heard a whisper. Both men turned to see the elderly Indian woman wave at them from the alleyway, the side door in the back open.

They looked around cautiously, then both joined her.

She waved and nodded. "Here."

"Who's here? Jemma's here?" Grant frowned, almost afraid to believe it.

She shook her head. "Not now."

Grant knew he was illogically getting his hopes up, but he could feel his heart plummet at that.

He could hear her husband calling her from somewhere in the house.

"Ten days," she whispered, quickly hurrying back towards the door. "Ask Mr. Fitzsimmons."

Mark look relieved at the information, but Grant could barely breathe. Mr. Fitzsimmons? Her father? He had died. Her husband? Her brother? She was an only child. Her husband!

He climbed back into the car, plotting murder. Ten days! A husband!

One thing was quite clear to him: Jemma Fitzsimmons had been hiding more than one thing from him, and he'd believed all of it.

* * *

"We all help Penny!" David announced proudly at the dinner table.

"Do you?" Jemma asked with a smile, digging into her food. Penny had been appalled to discover her sister had eaten nothing but Cheerios and fruit for three days. She'd been shoveling all kinds of big meals at Jemma since then. "And what do you do?"

"Howie dusts the table legs and the bottom book shelves because he's smaller," David continued. "And I do the tops. Mary mows the lawn, now, but only if Penny is home. Penny just taught her."

"That's wonderful," Jemma praised. "It's good that you help Penny."

"Mary says we should help so Penny isn't so tired after her job!" Howie announced.

There was silence at the table. From the glares the older three were sending the youngest, Jemma was sure something was up.

"Job?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oops." Howie's smile disappeared instantly and he turned his wide eyes down to his plate.

"And what is this job, Penny?" Jemma asked sternly. "Would this be this long errand you have to run in the afternoon?"

Penny tried not to look guilty.

"Because you don't already have a full-time job, running this household? Didn't Leo and I tell you we wanted you to focus on school, and that we would pay for everything you needed?"

"Don't be mad, Jemma!" Mary cried. "I help Penny stay up to do her homework!" She paused for a moment, then winced when she realized what she had said.

There was silence.

"Howie, sweetheart," Jemma said gently. She had learned something from the Wards, she thought, as she smiled and asked the devious question: "What else did Mary and Penny tell you _not_ to say when I came home?"

"That Penny paid to get our car fixed!" Howie said with a bright smile, delighted he had remembered.

Jemma straightened in her seat. "Is that so."

Penny smacked her forehead.

* * *

Grant rubbed his face with his hand. It had been four days. He had just gotten off the phone with Ada, who had again asked eagerly about Jemma. He'd managed to hold her off yet again, but he couldn't dodge her forever. Ada wasn't dumb. Soon he'd have to explain why Jemma never talked to her on the calls. He'd have to call far less now until he could figure out a better solution.

Mark Lockwood dropped a folder onto his desk.

He looked up at the older man. "What's this?"

"Everything I could dredge up, including the initial background check," the redhead replied, nodding at the folder. "It only goes back four years."

The younger man blinked. "That's when she came over from England," he guessed. He flipped open the folder. There was nothing in there to indicate anything odd. She had no permanent address. Her bank account was in her own name. She seemed to have been living with a Leo Fitzsimmons, who was a year younger than her, but there was no other information.

Leo Fitzsimmons.

Grant could feel his hands balling into fists.

"I asked around for you about this Leo Fitzsimmons," Lockwood replied. "The guys who know him best are with him overseas with him - they went on a research jaunt. The ones I did run into were pretty closemouthed - a little suspicious of me asking."

The younger man gritted his teeth and kept his voice calm. "What did you find out?"

"One said he's mentioned an English girlfriend." The older man paused, letting that sink in. Grant continued with slow, measured breaths. "On the other hand, he doesn't wear a wedding ring."

Grant did not find this comforting whatsoever. "You don't wear your wedding ring," the younger man retorted. The older man chose to forgo his ring on his finger for security reasons; even a tan line from a wedding ring would give away information he did not want to reveal. "Yet nobody would question in the slightest your commitment to your marriage."

Lockwood shrugged in acknowledgment. "If it's any comfort to you, I believe she's single." He thought over what he said. "Was single before she married you."

"She said she was an only child, Mark," Grant murmured. "And before you say she might have lied, you have never seen her try it. She is not good at it."

"And I doubt she'd be good at bigamy, either," Lockwood pointed out, a point Grant had to concede. It didn't seem in Jemma's nature. After a moment of silence, the security man nodded at the folder. "I'm getting stalled by legal privacy rules," Lockwood replied. "It'll take some time to find more."

"Anything odd?"

"Took a trip out west twice in the last four years. I'm still trying to find the tickets. She took a bus."

Grant blinked. "Like a bus with wheels?"

Lockwood looked at him, amused. "Is there another kind of bus?"

"That would take a few days," Grant protested. "Paying for the meals wouldn't be worth just buying a plane ticket."

Lockwood gave him a look. "Cheap plane tickets go to big cities," he replied. "If she's not going to a big city, the bus will be cheaper. And I doubt she'd be splurging on big meals."

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose. He had suspected that she didn't eat properly on her own, in a desperate attempt to save money. She seemed a little bony to him, although she ate well in those weeks with him and had shown no signs of eating disorders.

"I can guess better where she's headed if I know who she was in England. It wouldn't be hard; I already can rule out the boatloads of Jemma Fitzsimmons who currently living there."

"That's a popular name?" Grant wrinkled his nose. "I knew 'Jemma' was popular there but not that popular."

"Google search will bring up half a dozen 'Jemma Fitzsimmons' without me even trying to search for them. Computer scientists, barkeeps; living in Wales, Cheshire, Sheffield."

Grant blinked. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Nope."

"England's got what, a little over half a billion people? And I know she's not Scottish or Irish. How can there be that many Jemma Fitzsimmons among them?!"

"I can rule out the little kids and I can rule out the old ladies. I can rule out the ones on Facebook who've posted pictures of their English vacations within the last four years."

"I thought you were hampered by privacy laws."

"Facebook? Privacy?" Lockwood raised an eyebrow.

"All right, point conceded." Grant sighed. "I'll go along with whatever you believe is best."

The older man nodded. "Call your friend Denning. If he can get his man on this job before I get there, all the better. Oh." He handed Jemma's tablet to him. "She deleted her Internet history, everything. She set it back to manufacturer's state."

Grant groaned.

"There's somebody you can call."

Grant frowned, puzzled. Then understanding dawned; his brow smoothed out. "No."

"Yes," Lockwood disagreed, raising an eyebrow. "You know she's the best."

"She's going to punch me in the face."

"Go down there, get punched in the face. Better than waiting around here for my wife to get home to do it."

* * *

Jemma sat in their small living room with Penny, relaxing over a cup of tea. The younger children had gone to bed. After a couple minutes of silence, Jemma spoke. "Mary told me you did not attend your - prom? Ball. Formal dance. She thought you would go with Robert."

Penny sighed. "Mary talks too much."

"I understand this prom is a rite of passage in the United States," Jemma replied, a trace smile on her face.

"Yes, but it is not an actual right," Penny retorted.

Jemma sighed. "I wish you had told Leo and me about it. I know you didn't mention it because it would cost money."

Penny shook her head. "It was not necessary for me to go," she replied. "It was a minor sacrifice, Jemma. A minor one." She thought for a moment, then blushed, but said nothing.

Jemma smiled at her, teasing. "What?"

Penny smiled then, her cheeks pink. "It - not going turned out quite well," she admitted.

The older sister teased, "Robert did something romantic for you, hm?"

Penny looked indignant. "How much did Mary tell you?" she exclaimed.

Jemma just laughed softly. "So tell me how this all came about."

"I'd been helping Robert in AP Chemistry since the start of the school year," Penny said quietly. "I thought we were just friends. I helped him with chemistry, he taught me how to change the oil in my car." She shrugged. "He asked me to attend the prom with him, and I turned him down. Even if he paid for the ticket - "

" - you couldn't afford a dress," Jemma finished.

Penny shrugged. "I was so flattered and I wanted to say yes, and Rob looked so hurt when I said no. But I couldn't tell him I couldn't afford the dress. He would have offered to pay, and that was too much, to pay for my ticket and my dress; his family isn't well off, either. So I just said no. He must have figured out everything, or one of my friends told him. I thought he would simply ask somebody else; he is well-liked because he's friendly." She shrugged. "I too liked him, but I couldn't justify spending all that money for one party."

"Mary said he showed up here the night of the dance," Jemma replied.

She blushed. "We were just starting to make sandwiches for dinner when he appeared. He had brought Chinese takeaway and popcorn and Disney movies on DVD. He just - he gave me flowers, then spent the whole evening here with all four of us, helping us make sandwiches and playing games with the younger ones and popping corn and watching movies." She gave a small, shy laugh. "It was the best date I'd ever had."

Jemma laughed warmly, pleased her sister had won the heart of somebody this considerate and this willing to forgo his own wants for her. "Sounds like a keeper," she teased. Penny reddened.

The older sister then sat back, studying the younger for a moment. Jemma was both proud of Penny and sad for her. As much as they had tried to protect the younger children, she and Leo were not the only ones who had lost their innocence in midst of this entire mess; she and Leo had not the only ones who been forced to grow up too quickly. "I know you won't get another chance for this prom, but in case something else like it does come up, I want you to go."

"Jem - " Penny started to disagree.

Jemma carefully went to the closet and pulled out her pale blue dress, which had been made for her debut as the newest Mrs. Ward, and held it out to her sister. Penny gasped. "There are shoes to go with it, though we shall see if they fit or not." Jemma smiled. "Go, try it on."

In a few minutes Penny came back out in the dress, her hand running reverently down the side. "It's magnificent, Jemma. How did you get it?"

Jemma could not stop the wistful smile that crossed her face. "It was a gift," she said, only. "And it's lovely on you, even if you are a bit taller." She blinked to keep the tears from her eyes. "I hope you get some use out of it."

Penny quietly changed out of the dress, hanging it back up in the back of the closet. She came back and sat down, and Jemma gave her a bright smile. Penny just looked at her, then covered her sister's hand with her own before asking softly, "Was it so bad?" Jemma blinked, confused. "You haven't spoken of your last employment since you came home."

"Oh." Jemma was quiet, wistful as she thought about Grant. It seemed like a lifetime ago, like a foreign country away. Still, thinking of him made her sad. "No," she said quietly. No, despite the family's problems, it had not been that bad. "No, it wasn't so bad."

"Bad enough for you to leave," Penny replied.

"I - I did something I should not have," Jemma said softly. At Penny's disbelieving look, Jemma laughed as lightly as she could. "I didn't steal anything or wreck any homes," she kidded.

"You wouldn't," Penny replied. "But I am worried something else happened. The dress? And I know you were up to something today when you went with me and dropped me off at work. And" Penny held up a hand "don't change the subject to my Kumon job."

Jemma swallowed. "I made a bad decision," she said. "And I had to make it right. And I did, I hope."

Penny squeezed her hand. "I hope you will tell me someday," she said softly, "if not now. You have borne too much of the responsibility for this family, Jemmie."

"Is that why you got the job?"

"I knew you'd turn this conversation back to that," Penny laughed. "It was a good opportunity, and Rob's parents offered to help watch the other three while I was working, and it's just part-time and I make good money. It helps to pay the bills. Stretch our budget. I don't have to ask you for money when something goes wrong."

"Like the car."

"Yes." Penny nodded. "We are part of this family, too, Jemma - me and Mary and Davey and Howie. It is not just you and Leo. You must remember that."

Jemma smiled, her eyes glassy with tears. Penny threw her arms around her sister.

* * *

Grant rubbed his hand over his hair and looked at his brother and his sister-in-law. Len was looking at him cautiously. Celia was looking at him suspiciously.

"I need some help."

"We gathered that," Len replied. "Especially since you Skyped - from Boston! - with Ada and the boys just this morning, telling them Jemma - whom we have not seen in a week - was fine and sent her love. And then you ask to meet us at our New York lab - not at the house - at 10 pm."

"This better be good," Celia huffed.

Grant took a deep breath and started explaining. When he was done, he looked at them. Len was staring at him with an indescribable expression on his face. Celia, well -

*pow*

His head snapped back, then back forward. "What the h-ll!" Grant exclaimed as he held his bleeding nose.

"I liked her, you pinchy-nosed, pug-faced douchenozzle!" Celia shouted, waving her arms like she wanted another go at him, even as her husband pulled her back, stepping between her and his brother.

"So you punched me in the face?!" Grant exclaimed, his words muffled by the hand over his face.

"At least now you're not shouting 'pow' whenever you throw a punch," Len said thoughtfully. Grant looked at him, feeling rather betrayed.

"I should never have married into this family," Celia huffed. "Should have taken up Miles on his marriage offer."

"Miles? Miles Lydon?" Len asked suspiciously. "'We used to call ourselves SkyeMiles' Miles?"

Celia gasped in horror. "You promised me you wouldn't bring up that nickname!"

Len kept steamrolling: "Took-secret-photos-of-our-wedding Miles? Tried-to-sell-them-to-OK! Magazine Miles? Hey-let's-break-into-his-apartment-to-erase-the-photos Miles?" Len said pointedly.

"Breaking and entering?!" Grant interjected sharply, glaring at them both. He pointed an accusastory finger at Celia. "This is your fault!"

"Technically, Len did the breaking in and I entered the apartment," Celia retorted. "It was kind of hot on his part. And don't distract me."

Grant handed her the tablet. "Please. I need to find Jemma."

Celia pointed at his nose. "I'm only doing this because Ada will be crushed to find out you are a complete buttmunch."

Grant grumbled. He'd forgotten the snarky mouth Celia had on her.

* * *

There was a rap on the office door, and Grant looked up to see Mark Lockwood come in, still wearing a jacket, with a bag strapped to his back. "I came straight from the airport." He set the bag down, then pulled out a huge file and handed it to Grant. The latter flipped it open to find a short summary of Lockwood's findings right on top of the other papers. Mark knew him well.

"Charity - Charity? Charity Duncan," he mumbled. So that had been his wife's birth name. Jemma Fitzsimmons had been hiding more than one secret. Who the *&^$ named their daughter 'Charity' any more? Her brother's name was James - now Leo Fitzsimmons.

_Her brother_.

Grant sagged in relief.

Charity Duncan. She had had her name legally changed to Jemma Fitzsimmons four years ago. No wonder she hadn't put up a fuss in changing her surname to Ward. Fitzsimmons wasn't even her real name.

"I finally figured out why so little came up in the background checks," Lockwood explained. "When I did the initial check, we ran her law enforcement clearances. Those are an open book, as were all her American job references. Her sole English references were two Cambridge professors - who, I have discovered, were coached by the family lawyer to reveal no background information whatsoever."

Grant looked up at that. "Coached? So Jemma wasn't at Cambridge?"

"Oh, no, she was. She didn't lie about any of that - except she might have understated her academic abilities."

Of course she did, Grant thought.

"Your friend Robert Denning uses a security consultant, a retired detective inspector named Lewis. When he saw whom was I tracking and her age, he called up his old sergeant, who was just a little older than Jemma and a student at Cambridge. Turns out that while they were not in the same college there, the Duncan scandal was so huge everybody at Cambridge knew something about it."

"Scandal?"

"Gambling debts. Simon Duncan, respected doctor, was over a million pounds in debt because of online gambling."

Grant swallowed as he looked up at Lockwood. "In debt when he died?"

One nod. "Family sold everything; some family friends stepped up in a big way to help. They still owe slightly under half a million pounds right now."

Over a million pounds sterling in debt to start and still owing half a million. It suddenly explained why Jemma had wanted two million American dollars over her first four years. She had been trying to pay off the debt and repay her family's friends. No wonder she had jumped at this chance he had offered her.

"Charity and her brother were both at Cambridge - Churchill College - when it happened, on accelerated programs to get their degrees. Her brother finished his bachelor's and moved on. She, however, took all her hard classes in her field of study first - she was taking master's level and doctoral level classes within her first three years - but didn't have the base required classes _not_ in her major."

"So she was left with not even a bachelor's degree when she pulled out," Grant finished.

"Cambridge is holding her degrees until she finishes, but it's been four years since she left. Because of the gambling sharks, the family lawyer said it was best if they moved out of the country. They had a family friend with contacts in MI-5. They basically pulled strings and hid the family in the United States under new identities and confused the trail."

"That's why you were having so much trouble tracking her down," Grant commented, looking up at the veteran.

The redhead nodded once. "It was really well done. The American background check didn't raise any red flags or look odd - it was designed to give your wife a blank slate to start over in the US. The minute I flew over to England, though, and started inquiring, I got stonewalled and watched. If not for the fact that your friend Denning and his security consultant are both so trusted, I would've gotten nowhere."

Grant frowned. "So her name used to be Duncan."

Lockwood nodded. "She and her brother changed their names to Fitzsimmons - "

"'Fitz' because they're the children, 'simmons' for their father Simon."

"Yeah. Jemma and Leo are names from grandparents, great-grandparents in the family. The younger children - a full sister and three half-siblings - went to live with their stepmother's grandmother in Idaho."

Grant stared at the file a moment, then looked straight up at the other man in astonishment. "She's got more than one sibling?"

"Their birth records were sealed in England," Lockwood replied. "Leo and Jemma cut off their younger siblings in almost every legal manner. The younger ones were formally adopted by the grandmother, and their official name is Earhart."

"They were minors," Grant murmured as he looked over the file. "Jemma and her brother were trying to prevent the loan sharks from finding their younger siblings."

"They shouldered the burden of paying off the debt," the older man agreed.

Grant sat for a long time, just looking over all of Lockwood's findings. His wife had been his age when she, too, chose separation from her own family - in her case, for their benefit. She had committed herself to years of debt-ridden labor to try to save her family. It also made sense to him, finally, why she had been tempted to and agreed to violate her ethics - to marry him for money for just a few weeks. She had done it for love of her family. While her motives did not excuse her behavior, it made it understandable.

He just wished she had told him. She had come to his home and added all his own family's problems onto her small shoulders, sharing their heavy weight so he did not have to carry them on his own. It was, to be honest, a little hurtful that she had not shared her own burdens with him.

Lockwood was watching him for the longest time, and then he reached into his coat and pulled out a flat, slim box and set it in front of Grant. "I didn't come straight from London," he admitted easily. "I flew to Seattle, first, on a tip. Serial number matches yours."

Grant felt his heart seize. He recognized the familiar box, which held the necklace he had given her as a wedding gift. He did not take the box.

She had sold it.

He could feel his entire body grow cold.

"Thought you'd want it back."

Grant's voice was measured, chilled. He pushed it over to Lockwood, unopened. "Give it to your wife."

Lockwood opened his tablet without another word, tapped a few things onto it, then swiped something onto the flatscreen TV in the office. Grant couldn't help but look up at the video.

Jemma was standing in a jewelry store, a small one. He could see her shoulders slightly slumped. A short, elderly man stood next to her, patting her hand every few minutes, as they both talked to the jeweler. After a couple of minutes, she left, with the box.

Lockwood switched the video to the outside, zooming in on a sixteen-year-old Toyota with dents on the sides. She was sitting in the driver's seat, holding the necklace, hunched over the wheel, her shoulders shaking. Grant suddenly realized that she was weeping.

Grant started to turn away. "Turn it off." But Lockwood just let the video play, as if oblivious to his employer's reaction.

After a good five minutes, she reached for the tissues in the car, wiping her face and her tears, tossing them in a pile on the dashboard. She took one last look at the necklace before closing the box and getting out of the car.

The video stopped, and Lockwood spoke as professionally and as detachedly as if giving a report. "When Celia figured out that Jemma had gone to Idaho Falls in her trips out west, I snooped around. The necklace - which I found in a shop in Seattle - had been sold to them from a jeweler in Idaho. That local jeweler - he had one appraiser who knew quality when he saw it."

He was quiet for a moment, letting the information sink in. Then he continued. "Jemma sold it for a full 5K under its value: got $20K. The money was wired to England. Most of it went to pay one of the debtors who suddenly called in his part of the loan. The rest was sent to a family friend who was just diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer."

He pointed at the short, older man in the video. "He's a pawn shop owner in Idaho Falls. He's got a collection of jewelry in the back - hers. The family has been selling the heirlooms piecemeal for cash, whenever certain bills come due."

She was selling her jewelry - her own heirlooms. It assuaged the blow of discovering his own gift had been sold. Grant could feel his heart soften. "Where are the pieces now?"

"Pawn shop owner still has them," Lockwood replied. "Wouldn't even show them to me. Doesn't have them on display. Given how protective he sounded of the family, I don't believe he intends to sell them at all."

She inspired such loyalty even in those not her family. Grant was quiet for a long time.

The older man then pushed the box with the necklace back over to him. His tone was gentle and wise; he was speaking now not as security consultant to Grant Staunton but as the man who had cared for Grant Ward as a father for the last nine years. "Grant, go find her. Talk to her."

Without another word, he gathered up his bag and slung it over his shoulder and walked out.

Grant looked down at the open box, the stones of the delicate necklace twinkling up at him. D-mn Lockwood's ability to manage him.

* * *

He now had a location and a city in which to find Jemma. It wouldn't take much to get an address. Still, Grant hesitated. Mark had warned him against spooking her; while the security consultant had been discreet, his trip to Idaho Falls had not gone unnoticed. Grant did not want to give her a chance to run, so when Mark suggested coming at her from a sidewind, Grant nodded. The best indirect approach, both men agreed, was to wait for Leo Fitzsimmons.

He had to wait two days - two long, interminable days - for Leo Fitzsimmons to return from a research trip to South Africa to test some new medical technology he'd helped to design. Trip knew about the trip through a friend whose cousin worked on the team; he'd gotten Grant a return date.

Which was today. Grant had been sitting outside the house for an hour when he saw a light go on downstairs.

The door to the back apartment was answered by a tired-looking young man - who looked like Jemma. The man looked him over guardedly. "How may I help you?"

"Mr. Fitzsimmons?"

"Yes."

"You have a sister. Jemma."

The man only looked at him blankly. He was better at dissembling than his sister, Grant thought wryly. "Mr. Duncan," he switched tack, hoping to overwhelm the other man with the amount of knowledge had of their past. "I intend to find your sister - Jemma, Charity, whatever she's calling herself right now. I have business with her."

The man only continued his blank look, but the muscle near his eye jumped nervously, giving Grant the opening he needed.

Without invitation, he stepped past him into what was a tiny studio apartment. There was a small galley kitchen, enough to hold one person at a time; a worn daybed sat on the side. There was a small, round plastic picnic table with two cheap plastic chairs in the corner, and two large, plastic, see-through tubs held clothes. A sleeping bag was rolled up in the corner, in another tub. The laptop was the most expensive item in there, an antenna attached to a USB television tuner. Grant could see Harvey Leonard giving the weather on the computer.

So this had been Jemma's life.

"You have a sister, Jemma," Grant repeated, turning to the other man. "I suppose there must be another half-dozen of you somewhere. It would explain a lot." Like how she managed his whole family - siblings, spouses, children - without blinking an eye.

"Who are you?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"Grant Douglas Ward, the - "

"Her former employer." The eyes narrowed, and he got a stony look on his face. "You're married. You've got children. She told me. If you're here, looking for her, that must mean she's left your employment, and if she's left, that means you - you're an a**."

Grant sighed. First Jemma, then the postal office worker, after that the pawn shop owner, now her brother. Why the $%^& did he have to meet all the honest and scrupulous people this month? Why couldn't he meet somebody who'd sell him information for a buck? He had to admit to being rather pleased, though, that Jemma had somebody looking out for her. He hated to think of her as having nobody.

"Well," he replied with a wry, easy smile, "unfortunately for you, the a** is your brother-in-law." He paused to let this sink in and had to admit to some amusement in watching the stunned horror of realization dawn on the other man's face. "I am very much married - to your sister. We have no children yet, having been married only a month." He paused, then mused, "Well, no children I know of, though I guess by now she'd know better than I if we're going to have children in a couple of months."

It took a moment for Fitzsimmons to process the implications of _that_ statement; when he did, he looked as if he was about to throw up. "Everything, though, depends on whether I can run her to earth. She seems to believe she can nullify our marriage if she hides."

Leo Fitzsimmons was staring at him as if he had just come from another planet. "You married her?" he said faintly. "And she's hiding from you? But - "

"I should add," Grant said as an afterthought - perhaps he should have led with this - "I love my wife."

"You love her? Yet she's run away after a month?" The bewilderment wore off slowly, replaced with the same implacable stubborness the man had exhibited before. "You'll find her over my dead body."

"Well, then, I'm talking to a dead man, because I've already found her," Grant replied. "I just don't want to spook her. I have to say, though, I'm glad she has good and loyal family. I'd have hated you if you'd seen me and just hugged me as your new brother."

"Didn't do it to please you," Fitzsimmons grumbled. "How did you find her?"

Grant gave him a look but didn't bother to answer the question. "I can show you my marriage certificate and the other paperwork."

"Yeah, you go get that," the other man mumbled.

"Mark?" Grant called to the doorway. "Would you get the paperwork for me, please? And ask Antoine if he'd come, too?" As Lockwood headed off, he looked at the other man's pouty face. "You didn't believe I'd actually leave and give you a chance to bolt the door behind me and run, do you?"

"Hope springs eternal," Leo sighed.

Grant grinned ferally. "If you've suspected your sister of insanity," he said, "I'd be happy to confirm it."

* * *

The children were playing happily outside in the front of the house, shouting and chasing each other. Penny scrubbed at the siding of the house while keeping an eye out for their safety. The younger ones saw the vehicle first, their eyes widening at the beautiful car barreling down the road towards them. They were stunned to silence when it pulled in front of their home; it was the oldest who first recovered, dashing to Penny and shouting the news at the top of her lungs so she could be the first to announce it.

The noise ceased when a familiar voice called from the car - and then there was a stampede in the opposite direction.

"LEO!" The three bolted towards the now smiling man as the two older ones clambered at him and the smallest trying to squeeze his way in to hug his older brother. A young woman who resembled Leo and Jemma came, too, hugging him tightly as he pecked her on the cheek.

Their greeting was cut short when the other car door opened, and a stranger emerged - taller than their brother, more elegant, colder, dressed in black. He looked like he stepped out of a men's fashion magazine.

The youngest squeaked and hid behind Leo.

"Penny, Davey, Howie, Mary - this is Grant Ward, a - " he paused for a moment, then tried again. "My - an - " He stumbled over a description, then opted for another tactic entirely. "Why don't we go inside?"

Grant rolled his eyes. Seriously, if he weren't Jemma's beloved brother...

The house was tiny - that was the first thing Grant noticed. The kitchen was small and most likely couldn't fit more than two people at once. The dining area was serving multiple purposes: there was a small, old dining table, around which four could sit comfortably and six tightly. There was a small cabinet nearby; instead of holding china, it had crayons neatly stacked in a plastic cup with "Grandpa's Southern BBQ" on it, with pens and pencils in another cup. On the same shelf was a hole punch and a few rulers and tape and glue. A phone sat nearby. The living area had a worn and outdated couch, which sat in front of a small television with a rabbit ear antenna and converter box and a DVD-VCR combo machine attached to it. Against the wall were neatly stacked two smaller, cardboard boxes labeled "Toys".

He could see down the hallway into what had to be the only bathroom, which had two rubber duckies hanging from the doorknob, and into each of the rooms, on the left and the right of the bathroom - it seems the boys had one and the girls had another.

That would explain the sleeping bag and the blankets by the couch. He noticed Jemma's nightclothes neatly folded nearby.

They were all standing there, awkwardly, when Leo cleared his throat. The older sister - Penny, Grant guessed - immediately turned red. "May I offer you something to drink? We have - " she trailed off. "I'm afraid we have just juice and water and milk. I could put a pot on for tea. Oh, but do you drink tea?"

She reminded Grant a little of Jemma's adorable rambling when she was nervous.

"He's from Boston," Leo mumbled. "He'll just throw it in the harbor." Good night, the mouth on that one, Grant thought as he moved towards the far wall, leaning against the fireplace mantle. Still, the brother nodded to his sister, who rushed off. Leo then said carefully to the next oldest child, "Mary, where is Jemma?"

Mary pointed silently out to the back.

"Will you go get her, please?" Leo said gently, and the girl nodded, giving Grant a frightened and wary look before turning to go.

No summons was needed.

The door opened. "Leo!" Jemma came in, her eyes bright, her arms caked in dirt and full of odds and ends of vegetables. "Is everything all right?" she suddenly asked, her voice a moment of panic, before she shook it off and quickly dropped her load onto the dining room table, then went to hug him. "I'm so glad to see you. Nothing bad has happened, I hope. You're the last person I expected to see."

He looked uncomfortable, returning her embrace awkwardly. "Not the very last person, I believe," he said quietly.

Her brow furrowed for a moment as her smile dimmed and she gave him a puzzled look. He nodded his head once, his eyes flickering over to the fireplace. She followed his gaze there and stopped short.

"Jemmie, do you know Grant Ward? He's come with Leo," Penny said, ever so softly, mindful of her manners to make introductions even if she didn't look as though she wanted to do so.

There was a long pause. "He is my husband," Jemma finally said, so quietly Grant almost didn't hear it - but it was obvious Penny had.

There was a stunned, uncomfortable silence as the rest of the family stared at their eldest sister, then at the tall, scary man, and then back.

"I'd like to speak to my wife alone, please." He had straightened from his position leaning against the mantle.

"Why don't you show me what all you've been doing out in the back in your vegetable garden?" Leo suggested, quietly herding the others out the back. As he passed, the youngest looked up at Grant with huge eyes, his mouth agape. When he saw the older man watching him, quickly ducked his head back down and scooted out.

Leo shut the glass door behind them, and then there was silence.

"So."

She said nothing.

"I took me almost two weeks to find you."

"You did not need to," she said, her voice quiet. She did not look at him. There was a pause. "As you see," she said, her voice ever so soft, her eyes focused on the vegetables lying on the table in front of her, "I have a comfortable home, and I have family. I am not wealthy, but we get by. You don't need to worry about me."

"I don't need to worry," he repeated. "About my own wife."

"It was not - I am not really your wife. It was a temporary agreement on paper. I finished my job and came home."

"Not my wife," Grant repeated, each word a slap to his face. Not his wife! "There was a wedding. There was the legal paperwork. There was a ring you wore for weeks. You lived in my home, met my family, slept in my bed. How did you define 'wife'?"

"That's not fair! We had an agreement," she said desperately. "We had - "

"It was our agreement," he said gently, "that you perform this service and get a home and be cared for. You ran before fulfilling the second part of that."

"I could not take payment," Jemma said, still looking at the floor. "It would be wrong."

"It was not payment," he replied. "You are my wife."

He picked up her hands from her sides, then reached into his coat and pulled out the case for the necklace and the earrings and slid them into her hands. "I believe these are yours."

If possible, her head bowed even lower, and for a long time she did not speak. She refused to look at him, and it took a moment before he realized she was crying. She tried to pull her hands away, to give him the box back.

"These are yours," he repeated.

"No," she said, her voice strained. "No, they are not."

"I am giving them back to you."

She started to look up at him, but her eyes never reached his face. He suddenly realized that she felt ashamed, silent tears streaming down her face. "How can you forgive me for selling them? They were your wedding gift to me."

"My love gift, yes," he said quietly, and her tears became even more pronounced. "And I want you to have them." He paused. "I know why you did it," he said, softly, gripping her hands as she gasped and tried to pull away. "I know why you sold them. Why didn't you tell me about the debt?"

She was unable to speak for a good few minutes as she struggled to get herself under control. "It was my family's problem," she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"As were all mine," he replied. "Every problem we had, you took it on yourself to deal with, but you wouldn't allow me to help you. It's a different pride, Jemma, you know," he chastised, ever so gently. "Being unwilling to accept help from somebody who loves you enough to offer it."

Not getting a response, he continued, "You brother refused to tell me to whom the money was owed, but I have connections here and in England. Your father's debt has been paid off, and your father's friends who have been paying to help keep the debt from ballooning - they expected no repayment, but they have been paid back, also."

She burst into noisy tears.

"You choose," he said softly. "We made an agreement. You have to abide by it - a quarter million a year, the home you chose, the car. Or, we can tear up the agreement if you - " he paused, trying to get his voice under control. " - want to come home."

She wept, and he could see her indecision. "I can't," she finally said, through her tears. "I can't. My brothers and my sisters - they need me here. Penny is graduating, and she's already given so much of her life that I can't ask any more of her, and so - "

" - and so you'll be the one to keep giving," he finished quietly. "And no, your family doesn't need you here."

She looked up at him, her face turning mulish. She opened her mouth to disagree, but he cut her off.

"They need you," he corrected her. "They don't need you _here_. Bring them home with you. Ada would adore Mary, and Howard and David will get on with Len's boys. Penny can come, too."

"Penny - Penny has connections here," Jemma mumbled. "And she is going to school out west."

"Then Penny may stay if she likes, though we'll have to see about her accommodations," he replied. "Though I doubt your brother is going to like her here alone. As for Leo - I believe he hates me, but I can take him. Perhaps if it's better if he goes back to England," Grant joked. "He's still mad at me - well, and you. He grumbled under his breath the entire flight."

Jemma gave a laugh through her tears. "Anne - his girlfriend - is in England."

"Well, he can go where his work takes him, and if it's to this love of his life, all the better. I go to England often enough and have a small flat in Chiswick, so we could see him whenever you wished, anyhow."

He paused. "And - " he stopped, his voice now turning uncertain. "And if you want to go back to Cambridge, I'll get an apartment there. I know what finishing school means to you." He stopped, then looked back at her for a moment, nervously. "We - we have good universities here," he said, his tone unsure. "In Boston, you could transfer to Harvard, or to Columbia, in New York. I'm sure they would take your credits. If you want. You could finish there, and be at home."

Grant put his hands down, suddenly, and took a step back from her. "I sound like I am trying to sell you something. I'm bullying you," he said quietly. "I just came to ask this - you signed your letter with love. If you meant it, then come home. Please." He swallowed, then looked at her pleadingly but uncertainly. "Jemma?"

She wiped her tears from her eyes with her hands, getting streaks of dirt on her face. For a moment neither moved, just looking at each other, as if doing or saying anything might disrupt everything. After a pause, she nodded, looking up at him with with a smile, her eyes still bright with tears. It was hope and beauty and love all at once.

He grinned then, wide and happy and relieved. He pulled her to him and, gently cupping her chin in his hands, pressed his lips to hers.

And that is how her family found them.

_**Finis**_


	11. Addendum

**The Temporary Wife, Addendum**  
by Sammie

Disclaimer, rating, summary, main author's note on part 1.

I suggest you don't read this right after you read the ending to the original story. Wait a little. The tone of this chapter is diametrically opposed to the previous ten chapters, and so it might be a little off-putting. It's just that I generally turn to silliness after a serious story (see "My Friend the 084", which was written concurrently with "Apolutrosis") to get my mind off of the emotions of the serious one, and this ensued. Once the ending to the story (chp. 10) sinks in and is processed, this might not feel so awkward.

For those returning to this chapter some time after chp. 10, I hope you enjoy the goofiness. So I kind of lost my mind a little. :-)

* * *

The newlywed pair sat on the creaky porch swing with her, rocking quietly as they looked over the landscape that stretched beyond the backyard. Behind them was the living room, and through the open windows, they could hear the ruckus: the younger children giggling, and Penny just laughing as Leo tried to get out from under the pile of children on top of him.

Grant was holding his smartphone out in front of Jemma, about to press the phone to start the video call. "Ada will be overjoyed," he smiled. "She asked about you every time I called."

"What did you tell her?"

"I might have...not actually told her what happened." Grant wrinkled his nose a little. "She believes you're with a sick aunt."

"But I don't have an aunt," Jemma began, then realized what her husband had said. "You lied to her?! Grant!" she chastised lightly.

"You told me you were an only child!" he exclaimed in protest.

There was instant silence behind them, as Jemma's five siblings peered out at them from behind the screen door. Leo looked irritated. Penny, ever trusting that her sister had her reasons, merely looked amused. And the youngest three stood gaping at their eldest sister, half-shocked, half-hurt looks on their faces.

"Oops."

* * *

The large hammock swung gently in the chill air. Grant tugged the sleeping bag under their bodies higher up, then pulled the thick quilt over their shoulders. "The temperatures drop pretty quickly here," he commented.

"They do," she agreed as she looked up at him, her eyes bright even in the dark night sky. The stars reflected off of them. "You could get a hotel room in town if you like. I won't be offended."

Grant snorted. "I'm not letting you out of my sight," he began, and she blushed. "And I believe you're loath to leave your family."

"I am, but the house is a bit small for seven."

"How did you guys sleep when you used to come out here?"

"Leo and I haven't been here in Idaho together since we all first moved to the United States. He'd come one year for Christmas, and then I would come the next year. The last time we were all together was when we first moved here. Then, Howie and Davey were so small they shared a bed. Mary was small enough to share with me. We squeezed into the two bedrooms and our grandmother always slept in the living room."

"Mm." He tucked her against his side. "Guess I'm kind of an oversized bed partner." He smiled.

She laughed softly, snuggling deeper into his arms. "But a very welcome one."

"Good." He bent his head down to capture her lips, and she smiled against his mouth.

"Oi!" There was furious tapping on the glass and then the sound of the door being pushed open. Jemma squeaked as they quickly separated and rolled over to see a grouchy Leo Fitzsimmons standing there in the open doorway between the living room and the porch. He was glaring, hands on his hips. "No shagging in this house!" He looked at them _outside_ the house on the porch, then amended it to, "Under this roof!"

"I wasn't - " Grant started. Leo narrowed his eyes at him. Remembering that his wife's brother could most likely kill him five different ways with his designs for medical equipment, the older man shut up.

"Leo!" Jemma whispered back in embarrassment. "He's my husband!"

"No snogging in front of the kids, either!" Leo huffed before stomping back inside, shutting the door.

There was a long silence. "He _is_ going back to England, right?"

"Grant!"

* * *

**The Society Desk**  
All your most updated news on the _hoi polloi_ of the Northeast!

MORE SECRETS!  
The newly married head of the Ward empire was seen at LaGuardia, deplaning from his private jet with - get this - several _children_ who were not his nieces and nephews. He was finally again seen with his lovely wife, who debuted the night before her father-in-law passed away and then disappeared after the family funeral. Odd children and newlyweds spending weeks apart. Trouble in paradise already?

_#GrantStaunton #GrantWard #JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #secretlives #lovechild #troubleinparadise_

SECRET LOVE CHILD?  
New York and Boston's hottest newlyweds were seen schoolclothes shopping with two young ladies. The first was the easily identified Ada Ward, sole daughter of the late John Garrett Ward. The other was unidentified but of the same age. Has Grant Staunton/Grant Ward's reputation caught up with him? How does the new Mrs. feel about a love child?

_#school #AdaWard #lovechild #secretlives #GrantStaunton #GrantWard #JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard_

AND THE WINNER IS...BOSTON  
As of now, Grant Staunton will remain in Boston, despite the fact that he has inherited his father's New York empire. He and his wife was seen enrolling two little boys for the fall educational semester - boys who were _not_ his nephews. Is the new Mrs. Staunton the one with a secret life and secret children?

The spokesman for the family said that Staunton does not comment on private matters. The head of security for Staunton has officially gone on the record with the following statement: "Buzz off."

_#GrantStaunton #GrantWard #JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #lovechild #secretslives #moresecrets #scarysecurity_

WHY THE HASTY MARRIAGE?  
On a girls-only outing, the two sisters-in-law were accompanied by the same two young ladies seen a week ago. The newest Mrs. Ward was seen drinking only water and choosing a very healthy lunch - a choice for her own health or for another's as well? Is the legendarily single and childless Staunton desperately wanting to start a family?

When asked for a comment, Celia Ward replied, "I made Jemma order water to screw with your head." Charming as always.

_#JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #CeliaWard #CeliaSnark #lovechild #secretslives #babyontheway_

SEAL-IA OF APPROVAL  
Staunton's new wife has the approval of the two Ward women. The sister of the late Catherine Ward, Victoria Staunton-Hand, has said that her new niece is a brilliant and lovely young woman, and she approves. High praise coming from the well-known drill sergeant. Not that the legendary social matriarch would allow any but family to see her disapproval.

Celia Coulson Ward was more effusive in her praise. "She's perfect," the woman gushed about her new sister-in-law. "And kudos to my brother-in-law for picking somebody who's just an awesome sister, too. I believe I like her ten times better than I like him."

_#JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #VictoriaNoLastNameNeeded #CeliaWard #CeliaSnark_

SISTERLY JEALOUSY?  
A source close to Celia Ward claims that the sisterly bond the Ward ladies show in public is for show. "Celia was the beloved of the Ward men and now has been usurped," says the unnamed "old friend".

Celia Ward says it's a load of hogwash, and if she finds this source, she won't rest until he is dumped in some foreign city - say Hong Kong - without any money to get home. "'Miles to go before I sleep,'" she said cryptically, "Miles to go before I sleep.'"

_#JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #CeliaWard #CeliaSnark #anon #WTHRobertFrost_

HUNT IS ON...DON'T SHOOT A FRIEND IN THE FACE, THOUGH  
There seem to be no wedding pics from the most hotly anticipated wedding of the decade: Grant Staunton to whomever. Odd that there is no photo documentation of the Fitzsimmons-Ward wedding. The officiator, Jerome Triplett, is a well-known judge in Massachusetts - and notoriously close-mouthed. His brother and close friend to Staunton, Dr. Antoine Triplett, just laughed when asked about the wedding. "Yeah, I was there. She was the perfect choice, more than Grant knew." And that's all he'll say.

Even our hacker source, who is currently located in Hong Kong for some reason, sneaked into and provided photos of the lovely but oh-so-private Celia and Leonard Ward wedding - but has nothing on the far more public eldest Ward brother. How did the new Ward patriarch find his lovely English rose? And why the #$% are there no photos?

(Sorry ladies, Grant and Jemma are actually married - Commonwealth of Massachusetts has a legit license.)

The spokesman for the family said that Staunton does not comment on private matters. The head of security for Staunton has officially gone on the record with this statement: .:glare:.

_#GrantStaunton #GrantWard #JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #secretlives #moresecrets #DrBringingNoiseandFunk #ScarySecuritywithGorgeousEyelashes_

DOCTOR WHO  
The leading lady of Boston is now to be greeted as Dr. Staunton or Dr. Ward. With proud husband and huge family hogging the first three hundred rows of chairs, Jemma Fitzsimmons Ward received her doctorate from Hah-vard in something we don't know how to pronounce. Her doctoral thesis, titled something so long we forgot the beginning by the time we got to the end, is being published not by her alma mater but by the school from which she transferred. Available to all geniuses from Cambridge University Press in December.

_#JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #TheDoctor #smartypants_

TWO NEW WARDS DEBUTING  
The last eligible Ward (of legal age) is off the market! Third Ward son Phillip, currently a judge advocate in the Navy, has tied the knot with the heiress to all non-Party-owned businesses in China. Mae Qiaolian Song looked every inch the Song she is as she and her new husband walked under the saber arch. Welcome to the Wards, ma'am.

In attendance was all Phillip's family, which comes to our second point - it seems eldest brother Grant is excited (if one can call that stone face excited - he makes Captain Ray Holt of the 99 look like an emotional mess) to be welcoming his first child. Dr. Jemma, who is giving Queen Sofia and Duchess Kate a run for their money in fashion (she's already beat them in the academic part), looked appropriately lovely in a wine-colored dress covering her now significant baby bump, and an adorable fascinator to match. Here's to Doctor-Professor Jemma schooling Americans on what real hats are (and no, colonies, baseball caps are not real hats). The second Ward to be joining the family this year is expected in three months, and the little tot will most likely have both brains and beauty. (Have you _seen_ Mummy and Daddy?) Some people have all the luck.

_#ohsayitaintsoPhil #PhilWard #gentlemanandofficer #songempire #MaySongWard #dresswhites #ApologiesToRayHolt #dresstoimpress #babyontheway #JemmaFitzsimmons #JemmaWard #GrantStaunton #GrantWard #wasthatactuallyasmilewesaw_


End file.
